Of Ghosts and Gremlins
by AlkalineTeegan
Summary: A post-"Hiatus" exploration of how Tony and Jimmy might have become friends. Casefic with ensemble cast—minus Gibbs... kinda. He's remarkably present for being so very gone. Language and possible spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Gibbs had been gone about a month before it happened.

The team was in the middle of a frustrating investigation—a suspected money launderer had been found dead, along with stacks of cash, and there were no witnesses, no leads. And no one could come up with a reason to kill a guy and leave $100,186 in an open briefcase beside his beaten, bloody body. The cash looked, felt and even burned like real money, but Abby's machines were chewing on it anyway.

All while McGee and Ziva both decided to chew on Tony—separate snubs, one personal, one professional, but both within about five minutes of each other.

And when Tony went down to see Abby simply to talk to someone without being mocked or told "You're not Gibbs," she had given him nothing more than an impatient shake of her pigtails and a sour, "Gibbs never bugged me before my babies were ready" before sending him on his way.

So much for just talking without being reminded he wasn't Gibbs.

And no shit.

Tony knew he didn't have the magical gut of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. He didn't have his hard-earned authority, and he didn't have the respect their former boss had so easily commanded. He didn't have Gibbs' hair, either—_Thank god for that_, Tony thought, leaning against the wall outside the lab and trying to smile.

But he _was_ going to have more gray hairs than their AWOL leader if this kept up.

Most days, Tony enjoyed being in charge. He was a natural leader—he knew when to give his junior agents gentle prods, when to kick their asses and, perhaps most importantly, he knew when to back off of them and make himself step up.

And stepping up was exactly what he needed to do now. But he had no idea where to go in the investigation. And even brash very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo had his moments of self-doubt, when he wondered if Gibbs had been stone-cold wrong in his sudden assessment of "You'll do."

Tony closed tired eyes—only to have them pop immediately open to stop the onslaught of smoky, charred images of his current recurring nightmare. But it was too late. He knew the images like he knew his own face: the team trapped in a burning building, screaming at him for help, while Tony stood outside with his shiny new fireman's helmet in his hands and no idea how to reach them.

He straightened from the wall, knowing he needed to get back upstairs. He needed to put on a happy face and not let his team know how much those insults had stung his already raw emotions. He needed to help his team find the dirtbag and bust him, just like old times.

Really, though, he needed someone to tell him that what he had told the team was true: "We're going to figure this out. _All_ of it." But being team leader meant giving reassurances, not needing them.

Tony practiced his smile, running a hand over his hair and wincing at the thought of those dreaded gray hairs sprouting. He headed for the elevator, trying to distract himself from the fact that he was now the oldest member of the team—when he realized he wasn't.

He swung around and made his way toward autopsy, hoping Ducky had some answers for him. Hell, he'd even take a nice, long story right about now. And just maybe a tiny little bit of that reassurance he kept telling himself he shouldn't need.

He paused outside the double doors for only the barest fraction of a second before stepping through with his trademark grin firmly in place. He found only Jimmy inside but he didn't let the smile slip.

"Jimbo, my man!" he called, watching the assistant jump. "What's shakin'?"

Palmer stood stock still, staring down at his mop for a moment as if to be certain the floor wasn't trembling beneath him. "Nothing?" he said.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "That a question or a statement, JP?"

"Uh, J… P?" Palmer nodded with an embarrassed little smile as he recognized his own initials. "And it was more of a question." He pushed his glasses up his nose slightly. "Dr. Mallard didn't come in today."

Tony picked up a scalpel, holding the sharp blade up to the light. "He call?" he asked casually, even though his stomach tightened with dread. He wasn't sure his battle-weary little platoon could handle any more casualties.

Jimmy nodded.

Tony gave him a look—and then recognized the Gibbs-like behavior and asked, patiently, "Did he say why he wasn't coming in?"

"His mother. He said the autopsy was done and I could handle anything that came up today." Jimmy blinked nervously, his voice rising slightly. "Has something come up?"

_Only the arrogance of my junior agents_, Tony thought.

He gave Jimmy a reassuring smile. "Still haven't solved yesterday's case," he said, frowning as he tapped the blade on the back of his hand. It reminded him of his piano teacher whacking him with a ruler after discordant notes, and he could still hear the disappointment in her craggy old voice as she corrected him. It was the same disappointment he figured Gibbs would be feeling, knowing his chosen replacement was floundering like the catch of the day.

_Gibbs would have solved the case by now_, he thought, hitting himself a little harder. _And built a boat or two by now, too. _

"You should probably stop that?" Jimmy said, wincing in time with the slaps of the blade.

"Comparing myself to Gibbs?" Tony asked, so lost in his thoughts he spoke without realizing he said it out loud. He looked up at Jimmy's silence and found sympathy behind the round frames.

"Doing that," Jimmy said. He continued, his tone soft, "You're going to hurt yourself."

Tony nodded and put down the knife, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by everything that had changed in such a short period of time.

Jimmy saw his struggle and joked, "Good. You sure don't want me playing doctor with you."

Tony raised an eyebrow and Jimmy blushed.

"Uh," he stammered, shoving his glasses up his nose a little more ruthlessly. "That didn't come out right."

Tony smiled the saddest fake smile Jimmy had ever seen. "You always just say what you're thinking, Jimster?"

Jimmy did not smile back. He reached up and removed the glasses, watching the agent's tired eyes narrowing slightly at him. Palmer did not always have complete control over his mouth. But his actions were always carefully measured. He knew—contrary as it may seem—that he looked more serious without the round spectacles.

"Tony," he said, lowing his volume and, with it, the tone of his sometimes high-pitched voice. "Do you ever just say what you're thinking?"

Jimmy saw the slight flash of what he guessed was anger—he had little experience with an angry Tony, he realized.

"Good talk," DiNozzo said tightly, taking measured steps toward the door even as his left hand flicked furiously at his side.

"Wait," Jimmy called, swallowing his shock when DiNozzo immediately complied.

"Do you need something, Jimmy?" Tony asked, all emotion wiped from his face, his tone.

Jimmy blinked at the change and nodded, suddenly wondering why he often envied the agent's iron-fisted control. "Dr. Mallard told me to give you his report." He picked up a file and extended it warily to Tony. "We found ink under Jansen's fingernails. Magnetic ink."

Tony flipped through the file, frowning. "So our dead money launderer is also a counterfeiter?" he thought out loud. He sighed, finding it hard to think while Palmer was studying him like a particularly interesting exhibit at the Smithsonian—likely one on ancient embalming techniques. "Explains how Jansen was living the high life on a petty officer's salary. Thanks, Jimmy," he said, giving his nose a quick rub as Jimmy continued to stare at him even as he headed for the doors.

"Wait," Jimmy called again, waiting until Tony turned around. "You didn't answer my question," he said, a tiny shake in his voice contrasting with the defiant lifting of his chin. "I did just help answer one of yours."

Tony opened his mouth to make a joke but stopped at the seriousness in Jimmy's eyes. "I say stupid things all the time," Tony said carefully.

The assistant smiled—the patience in his expression reminding Tony strongly of the absent doctor.

"That wasn't what I asked," Jimmy said, watching Tony with slightly narrowed eyes. He was thinking the agent looked as calm as a long-condemned man making his final walk to the chamber. But Jimmy knew better. "Don't," he said sharply when Tony reached again for the scalpel. "And stop trying to distract me." He shook his head as Tony raised eyes showing zero emotion to his. "I swear you're the most controlled person I've ever met."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Have you met Gibbs?"

Jimmy smiled a little but he said, "Gibbs wouldn't bite his tongue to spare someone's feelings." He cocked his head to the side. "You would."

There was no acknowledgment of that—but Tony didn't leave, Jimmy noted.

"Gibbs has never thanked me for anything," Jimmy continued, gathering courage as he spoke. "You always do. He probably wouldn't trust me to be here without Dr. Mallard. But you do. Gibbs would never hang around and listen to me simply because I asked him to wait. You did. Twice."

Tony eyed him warily. "I see you've joined the 'You're not Gibbs' bandwagon."

"Is that really so bad?" Palmer asked, pausing. "You're here. He's not," he said, wondering if he was overstepping his place. But he knew Tony was under a lot of pressure—and he also knew the team wasn't making things any easier on their new leader.

Tony didn't say a word, his eyes still on the blade on the tray beside him.

Jimmy bit his lip, searching the agent's face for some sign of that turmoil. He couldn't find a trace. "You know, you'd make a really great spy, Tony."

Tony looked up finally, recognizing the comment for what it was—a way out of the current conversation—and he appreciated the gesture. Wanting to return the small kindness, he said, "So would you."

At Jimmy's dubious look, Tony continued, smiling and feeling some of the tension ease from his knotted shoulders. "Autopsy gremlin is a hell of a cover."

"Bond, Gremlin Bond," Jimmy said, not caring that he was butchering the accent.

Tony grinned. "Gives a whole new meaning to 'dead drop'."

Jimmy winced and flicked a nervous glance at the empty table. "It's my worst fear," he said, his tone so serious, so reverent that Tony burst out laughing.

It felt slightly foreign, but surprisingly good.

Tony recovered quickly and headed for the door, feeling much more ready to face his team. He paused, looking back at Jimmy, who was smiling down at his mop. "We should get a drink sometime, Gremlin."

Jimmy's smile stretched wider. "Sure, Tony. Anytime."


	2. Chapter 2

Tony walked into the lab and watched roughly half of his team jump at the sight of him. It couldn't have been more obvious that they were talking about him if McGee had screamed Tony's name from his guilt-tightened lips.

"Anything I should know about?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral and shoving down silly, useless old memories of one exclusion or another at one boarding school or another.

"It is not related to the case," Ziva said primly, apparently still not over whatever had gotten her dander up earlier.

_Ouch_, Tony thought, pasting on a smile.

"We were teasing the Elf Lord about… well, being an Elf Lord," said Abby, who was looking up at Tony with slightly guilty eyes. She brightened a little when Tony's smile turned more genuine, but her pigtails swung as she shook her head. "Major Mass Spec is being pokey and still doesn't know if the bills are counterfeit."

Tony gave her a nod and a reassuring pat on the pink skull on her left shoulder. "No problemo, Sciuto," he said jovially. "I know they are."

McGee's scoff dented Tony's smile a little and he turned wary eyes on his junior agent.

McGee crossed his arms. "You can dress like him, drink like him—"

"Glare like him," Ziva interjected.

"—and sneak up on us like him," McGee continued, sharing a smug smile with Ziva, "but you'll never match Gibbs' gut, Tony."

"Maybe not, Probie," Tony said, emphasizing the nickname but feeling rather childish about it. "But the bills are fake. Ducky and Jimmy found magnetic ink under Jansen's fingernails."

"Huh. Money launderer and counterfeiter," Abby said before anyone else could comment—on things case-related or otherwise. "Those are two well-paying part-time jobs. Way better than that boring-ass paper route I had back in the day."

"Suspected money launderer. We never could trace the source of the funds," Tony said. He saw McGee—who had spent hours trying—bristle at that and he quickly added, "This could explain why."

"It still does not explain why he was killed," Ziva pointed out.

"No," Tony said, "but now we can start looking at where the money was going rather than where it came from to find our killer."

"And how is that good news?" McGee grumbled. "It was hard enough trying to trace where it came from, and now you want me to predict where it was going? How am I supposed to do that? I'm not psychic."

Tony bit down on a Gibbs-like "Figure it out" and smiled instead. "Use that big brain and those magic fingers of yours, T-I-M from M-I-T." That got a small smile out of the probie, but neither he nor Ziva offered a suggestion on how exactly to go about the search. Tony waited a moment, giving them time to come up with an answer on their own. He gave a quick glance at Abby and then asked, "How much money was in the case?"

"About a hundred thousand," Ziva answered immediately, her pleased smile giving Tony an unexpected shock of pain as he remembered how much easier it had been to vie for the boss's approval than to actually _be_ the boss.

"Exactly how much?" Tony asked, turning to scientist Abby.

"$100,186," Abby answered, cocking her head. "An odd amount, when you think about it. I mean, even $101,000 would be odd, and … what? Did he stop and spend some of it? And if he did, why is there no change? There were no coins in his pockets. This is a bigger mystery than what's in McDonald's special sauce. Well, except that I already figured that out years ago."

Tony again waited for someone else to answer Abby's question, but no one spoke. He grinned at his team, thinking again about the glow of those rare "Good job" praises from their absent boss and knowing he would have to make do with impressing his junior agents. "He didn't stop for a Happy Meal, Abbs," Tony said, snapping on gloves and moving to the open briefcase on the shiny table in the middle of the room. He ignored the thick stacks of twenties and pulled out the smaller one. With a magician's flair, he laid out each bill side by side—all $186—and then waited a second before looking up at McGee, who looked immediately to Ziva.

"There is …" Ziva started, shaking her head, "one of each."

"Right," Tony said, tapping each bill slowly in descending order—$100, $50, $20, $10, $5, $1.

McGee's head snapped up as Tony's finger landed on the single. "It's a product showcase," he said, smiling.

"Good job," Tony said, watching Tim's grin get wider. He allowed himself a tiny moment to wonder if they all might just be okay after all.

"I can go back over Jansen's cell records and emails," McGee said, tapping his fingers as if already at his keyboard, "and see if I can find a likely buyer for the fake bills. Instead of looking for someone who has a lot of cash that needs cleaning, I can look for someone who needs a lot of cash on the cheap."

Tony nodded, feeling a pride he wasn't sure was his right to feel.

"It still does not explain why the killer left the money," Ziva said sourly. "Or who that killer is."

Tony tried not to sigh. "My people didn't build Rome in a day, Ziva," he said, his forced smile as plastic as a planted pink flamingo. "And McGee and I already told you why the killer left the cash."

Blank looks bordered on annoyance and Tony continued, "The killer must have known the money's counterfeit."

"But it's flawless," Abby argued, twisting a pigtail as she stared down at the bills.

"It's not flawless, Abbs," Tony said, moving beside her. He started to tell her why, but the mass spectrometer beeped from the nearby table.

"Wanna bet?" Abby asked, grinning as she made her way to the monitor.

"It's fake," Tony said confidently. "I'll take whatever bet you wanna make."

"Looks like real money," Ziva said, obviously aligning herself with Abby.

"Burned like real money," McGee said, physically moving closer to the two women.

"_Isn't_ real money," Tony said, "because—"

"It isn't real money," Abby said, her face falling as she read the results from the screen. "The paper composition is wrong—pretty damn close, but wrong." She turned accusatory eyes on Tony. "But you couldn't have known that just by looking at it. It's not nice to hold out on us, DiNozzo. Even Gibbs wouldn't do that!"

Tony pulled a face and asked for the second time that day, "Have you met Gibbs?"

"Anthony DiNozzo," Abby said, advancing on him and leveling her eyes at him thanks to clunky platform boots featuring more buckles than Tony owned belts. "You _will not _speak ill of the Bossman while he's … away," she finished sadly, making Tony's anger melt to match her chilled despair. She lifted her chin and said, "I'm totally gonna tell him you said that when he gets back."

The silence was uncomfortable because no one knew how to tell Abby their fearless leader likely wasn't coming back. Ever.

"I knew the money was fake," Tony said gently, placing big hands on trembling, skull-bedecked shoulders, "because it was still there next to the body. The buyer saw whatever we're missing and killed Jansen for his mistake. There's no other reason to kill the counterfeiter and leave the money behind."

"Oh," Abby said, still lacking her usual bounce. "True story."

Tony gave her a smile and turned back to the table, trying to spot whatever it was that had tipped the buyer to the bills' phoniness. He didn't have to look up to see their faces, but he knew his team was frustrated. "We will find the flaw," he said quietly, but with conviction.

"What if there's nothing wrong with it?" McGee asked, following Tony's eyes. He shot a quick look at Abby. "Nothing that we can see, anyway? Maybe the buyer got tipped."

Tony stopped berating himself for not coming up with that sooner and he gave the probie a nod. "That's good thinking, McGenius."

McGee was still smiling when his phone rang, and Tony studied the probie's back as he completed the quick call. It was obviously good news, but Tony didn't allow himself to get his hopes up. Thinking back over his law enforcement career, he could count on a fencepost the number of times someone had called and solved his case for him. And the paperwork on that one had about buried him.

McGee turned around. "Found our missing waiter."

"Order me a Caf-Pow," Abby joked, but the look she gave Tony was a complicated mix of hurt and humor and hope. "What waiter?" she asked after getting a small smile out of her sudden new leader.

"The waiter who saw three men in the alley where we found Jansen's body," McGee answered, but he was looking at Tony. "But he wasn't on the run like in one of your action movies. Turns out the guy's girlfriend dragged him to Vegas and he spent the weekend trying to get an annulment."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Did no one learn anything from Brittney and K-Fed? I mean—" he started, only to be cut off by Ziva.

"Did he see anything useful, McGee?" she asked, raising an eyebrow in question and managing a simultaneous glare at Tony.

The smile finally slipped and McGee said, "No. Just three guys in an alley who were too far away to see or hear."

"Three," Tony said softly, something nagging at him. It slipped away, though, and he stood up straighter. "McGee, Ziva, go talk to him. Abby, is there any way to trace the paper used for the fake bills?"

The Goth lifted a shoulder. "I can try."

Tony turned with her and watched the monitor as her fingers began flying over the keyboard. He tried to keep up with the rapidly changing screen, but he felt two pairs of eyes drilling into his back so he spun slowly to face his junior agents. He cocked his head. "You're still here," he said in a half-question. A feeling that was becoming familiar grabbed his stomach and twisted—hard. "Right. I'll go with you, Ziva. Tim, you stay here and—"

Ziva's hand came up and stopped Tony short. "So you do not trust us to interview a witness who did not even see anything?" she asked, her voice rising. She gave Tony a look like he was something unpleasant on the underside of her boot. "I take it back," she said, her voice tight. "You are not acting like Gibbs. He trusted us to do our jobs. And you, you are always looking over our shoulders, always right there. Do you not trust us, Tony?"

Tony swallowed his immediate answer—_I just want to protect you!_—and said much more calmly than he felt, "Of course I trust you. All of you." He turned halfway toward Abby to include her in that statement. "Ziva, you and I are going because McGee needs to get those magic fingers searching for our buyer." He turned back to Tim. "You've always been better at the computer stuff than me."

_At least some things never change_, he thought, wondering if he would ever get used to the fear he felt sending them off and armed out into a dangerous world—and wondering if Gibbs had been immune to this particular fear.

Ziva's eyes softened in what Tony guessed—hoped?—was an apology, and she nodded once. "We should be going, then."

Tony nodded back and the three agents headed for the door, only to be stopped by Abby's call of "Wait!"

"You find something already?" Tony asked, again stuffing down hope and wondering why he no longer trusted his own investigative skills—it wasn't like Gibbs had taken _those_ with him for his flight to Mexico.

Black pigtails swung slowly as Abby said, quietly, "I need to tell you something, Tony."

"I'll meet you upstairs," Tony said to Ziva, ignoring the impatient look she gave him as she left the lab. Tony knew even Gibbs would take a moment out during an investigation for an upset Abby.

The Goth hit the remote for her door and Tony tossed a wary look over his shoulder at it before turning back with a soft smile. "I'm going across town to interview a witness," he said, his smile going lopsided, "not to Mexico to build a boat or drown in a giant margarita."

Abby's smile was just as crooked. "I know," she said, still uncharacteristically quiet. She eyed Tony for a long moment and then launched herself at him with a clanking of chains and clomping of boots almost muffling her quiet cry of "I'm so sorry, Tony!"

He ignored the screensaver of Gibbs' face that popped up behind her, ignored too the irony of how it made him feel like nothing more than a placeholder. Tony felt her hot tears on his neck and he whispered, "You have nothing to be sorry for, Abbs. I know this is hard." He yelped when she drew back and punched him hard in the arm. "Except maybe that," he said, raising an eyebrow in question and rubbing his arm.

She covered his hand gently with hers and said, "Don't ever make excuses for someone who hurts you."

That about knocked him back on his heels, but he just asked, "Even you?"

"Especially me," she said, her hand moving to his face. "I'm not just on your team, Tony. I'm your friend. And you didn't deserve for me to go all Crabby-Abby on you."

He tried not to think about how good it felt when she melted back into his arms, her breath warm on his throat. "Are you gonna hit me again if I say it's understandable?" he asked softly, bracing even though he could feel her smile.

"Maybe," she said, sounding impossibly sad.

"Then I won't say it," he said, bringing up a hand to squeeze her shoulder. He added in a stage whisper, "Even if it is true."

"Even if it is true," she repeated, pushing back but keeping her hands on him, "it doesn't make it right for me to take it out on you." She burrowed back into his arms, as if afraid he might leave and never come back if she let him go. "I just… I guess sometimes I just forget that he left you, too."

"Abby—" he breathed, feeling like she'd knocked the wind out of him. But she just continued.

"I have to remind myself he's not dead," she said, her words only slightly muffled as she pressed against him. "And I should feel better when I remember that he's not, but I don't. I mean, I'm glad he's not dead, of course, but I had this dream last night that he died in the explosion and when I woke up, I knew I should have felt better but I didn't. I just felt so angry with him. And then I felt horrible for feeling like that, for being mad at him for getting blown up—because that wasn't his fault, you know? But I felt bad for feeling like I felt… And I… And then… Tony? Help?"

His smile was sad—and he let it be because no one could see the pain in it. "It's okay to be mad at him, Abbs," he said carefully, struggling to find the right words to soothe her without revealing the extent of his own turmoil. "It's one thing to retire and move halfway around the world—"

"I don't think it's quite halfway," she said, heaving a huge sigh. "But you're right. I'm pissed because he abandoned us—he's shutting us all out and it's just not fair. But it's not fair to be mad at him, either. Hell, Tony, how did everything get so bad so fast?"

He didn't have an answer for her—for any of the questions she was asking.

So he gave her the only thing he could give her, wrapping her up in a hug and not letting go until she broke the contact.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony and Ziva returned from interviewing the waiter with no more information than when they left, but Tony was glad they went—not because it was what Gibbs would have had them do, but because the three men in the alley were still nagging at Tony and he couldn't figure out why. Talking to the waiter hadn't solved the issue, but at least he knew he had tried.

"How goes it, McGoo?" Tony asked, trying not to grin when the probie jumped about a mile at the sudden voice behind him.

McGee sighed and stretched. "I'm about halfway through Jansen's records and so far no one stands out as the buyer," he said. He yawned and then added quickly, "But I'm not giving up."

Tony saw the yawn—and Ziva digging for change in her desk, likely for vending-machine dinner money—and he said, "Yeah, you are. Go home, both of you, and we'll come back at it in the morning."

"Tony, we are in the middle of a murder investigation," Ziva said, pausing in her digging and giving her boss an incredulous look.

The unspoken "Gibbs would never let us go home now" hung in the air, but Tony spoke before anyone could put voice to it. "I know. But we're also mere mortals who need food and sleep." He found a grin for Ziva. "Well, me and McGee are, anyway. I don't know how much sleep ninjas need, but I'm tired and I'm making the executive decision that we go home."

The junior agents eyed him distrustfully but apparently decided he was serious and started to gather their things. It wasn't like he was tricking them into leaving so he could score brownie points with Gibbs, after all.

Tony sank into his chair and rubbed his hands over his face, half-watching them go without even asking him if he was leaving, too. He wasn't sure why he cared if they cared so he shoved away the useless thoughts and picked up the file holding photos of Jansen's dead body. He wondered if he was doing the right thing—and then wondered when he had started second-guessing himself so much. Gibbs' handing over the team to him should have boosted Tony's confidence, but he wasn't sure he had ever been so filled with self-doubt. It didn't make sense.

Like the case.

His eyes strayed to the photos of the fake bills and he found himself looking at Ziva's desk—and seeing Kate standing there instead.

"_I did work for the Secret Service. We tend to get all hot and bothered over large sums of hundred-dollar bills."_

"_Is that what does it for you?" Tony had asked during that long-ago case._

"_What does it for me, Tony, is a mystery that you will never solve." _

Tony smiled even though his memory had supplied Kate with a dark red hole in her forehead and he knew she had been right in that assessment. He wiped absently at his face and wondered how the pain of losing her could feel so fresh—why he found it suddenly hard to breathe as longing filled his entire being. He just wanted her back, even if it was just to tease him or one-up him by solving the case.

And if she could snag Gibbs from his self-appointed Never Never Land on her way back, well, that would be a dream come true.

He tapped the photo of the bills and said softly, "You'd know what's wrong with these, wouldn't you, Katie?"

Tony popped to his feet and turned, catching Jimmy in the act of slinking away.

"I'm really sorry, Tony."

The agent had no idea what the apology was for—and he had a sneaking suspicion Jimmy didn't either—but he just shook his head. "Don't worry about it." He noted the lack of files in Palmer's hands and realized the assistant was probably checking on him. It made him feel kinda strange inside. "You wanna go get that drink now?" he asked.

Jimmy blinked several times before saying, "Oh. You meant that?"

Tony cocked his head, studying Palmer with a slight frown. "You don't have a lot of friends, do you, Jimmy?"

"Um, not really," Palmer said quietly, suddenly finding his shoes rather interesting.

Tony smiled. "Me neither. Let's go get drunk."

* * *

><p>They met at a bar on K Street in the District, one trendy enough to have the martinis Jimmy so enjoyed but with music low enough so they could talk without shouting. The silent piano in the corner made Tony feel at once nostalgic and oddly forlorn, so he ignored the instrument and took a slow sip of his scotch.<p>

The liquor burned its way down to Tony's empty belly and he looked up to ask Jimmy if he wanted something to eat—only to find the assistant already perusing the menu. His small, genuine smile felt strange on his face, like the stiff leather of brand-new shoes.

"The burgers here are unbelievable," Jimmy said, lowering the menu and sliding it across the booth to land in front of Tony.

"Harder to get loaded on a full stomach," Tony observed, still eyeing the menu with its glossy pictures of grease-oozing goodness. He realized this was way better than looking at photos of dead bodies and struggled to remember the last time he had been out to dinner with an actual person. "And if we're gonna get wasted on a school night, Jimster, we should probably get going."

"Shut up and order some food, Tony," Palmer said, surprisingly firm.

"Whoa, killer," Tony teased, holding up his hands. "You're not gonna pull a gun on me, are you?"

Jimmy rolled his eyes, pushing the menu closer. "You need to eat, Tony," he said. "Or you'll make yourself sick."

It was Tony's turn to blink in surprise as he tried in vain to remember the last time someone had reminded him to take care of himself. He forced a smile. "You should have stuck with the first order. Way more badass."

Jimmy frowned but his words were unexpected—even to Tony, who spent the better part of his days trying to anticipate.

"You don't have to do that with me, you know."

"Do what?" Tony asked, suddenly more wary of the autopsy gremlin than he had ever thought possible.

"Fake smiles. Deflect," Jimmy said, lifting a shoulder. "I won't tell anyone very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo had a moment of weakness and didn't feel like smiling."

Tony took a moment to decide if he believed that—and a longer one to wonder why the word "weakness" had him thinking of Gibbs. He erased all emotion from his voice and asked, "Are we going to talk about our feelings now?"

"Only if you want to. I'm actually pretty good at it. I have six sisters, you know, so I'm also very used to talking about my feelings."

Tony made a grunty little noise and said without looking up from the menu, "I'm not."

"No shit," Jimmy returned, watching Tony's eyes pop up to his face. "What? We work for the Navy. We should be _required _to cuss like sailors."

Tony drained his glass while considering that. "I'm sure Abby would have no problems with it," he said, smiling. "But McGoo still blushes when he says 'hell' in front of G—" He stopped, his eyes dropping back down to the table.

"Imagine Dr. Mallard puttering around autopsy dropping F-bombs," Jimmy said, noting—and mercifully ignoring—the wounded look in Tony's eyes at his slip. He plowed on, knowing he was again butchering the accent and again not caring, "Who killed ya, you poor bastard? Hmmmm? And where the fuck are your hands, my lad?"

The corner of Tony's mouth twitched up, and Jimmy decided to go for broke. "Although he and I might have some miscommunications, considering 'bloody' is both an adjective and an epithet, where he comes from." He slipped back into the poorly imitated accent. "What the devil did you do with this man's bloody spleen, Mr. Palmer?"

Tony was fighting giggles when the waitress arrived at their table and took Jimmy's order.

"Another scotch" was all Tony said—until Jimmy kicked him under the table. "And whatever he's having," he added grudgingly, drawing a huge smile from Palmer.

The woman nodded and walked away, and Tony gave Jimmy a calculating look.

"What?" Palmer asked, sounding a touch nervous again. "You're looking at me like Dr. Mallard looks at bullet wounds."

"You really have six sisters?" he asked, watching Jimmy relax and nod. Tony felt himself smiling again and he pulled out a movie quote, "Do you know all their names?"

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "They're my sisters."

"What are they called?" Tony quoted again when Jimmy didn't start rattling off names. The agent had a feeling there was a reason for that.

"Amy, Danielle, Sarah, Lindsay, Karen and Lisa," Jimmy said, pausing and grinning. "Sorry, no Skylar."

"No Willy either," Tony said, shrugging with a smile.

The silence held that slight awkwardness of two people who saw each other almost daily but barely knew each other. Tony resolved right then and there to get to know his team better—as people rather than agents and doctors and scientists. He realized it was one way in which he _didn't _want to be like Gibbs, too absorbed in getting the job done to remember that not everyone _was_ the job.

The funny thing was that if Tony hadn't been so busy comparing himself to his missing mentor, he would have realized he already did operate that way: Tony always strove to know his coworkers, from Abby's favorite band to Ducky's brand of scotch to Bill the security guard's favorite snack from the vending machine. Tony was a talker, for sure, but he also knew how and when to shut up and listen.

"So when Ziva and I went to interview the waiter—"

"No talking shop," Palmer said firmly. He saw the agent formulating a protest and he asked, "What part of 'downtime' don't you understand?"

The sharp tone had Tony thinking of Gibbs again, but Jimmy continued before Tony could even begin to analyze why the snappishness eased the near-constant knot of grief he seemed to be carrying around in his chest these days.

"I heard Matt Damon and Ben Affleck wrote 'Good Will Hunting' because they wanted to be actors but didn't think there were any decent roles out there for them," Jimmy said, pausing and thanking the waitress who delivered their dinners. "Can you imagine that?"

Tony stopped thinking about absent mentors and dead bodies and witnesses, and allowed himself to be pulled into the conversation. "Imagine being Matt Damon—a nobody back then—and suddenly you're sitting on a set with Robin Williams delivering lines you wrote."

"Or changing them to fart jokes," Jimmy said, munching on a fry. He saw Tony's face go skeptical. "That was totally ad-libbed," he said. He adopted a very serious expression and said, "IMDB doesn't lie."

Tony laughed. "Either way, it was pretty funny."

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed. "Even the cameraman must have been laughing with the way that whole scene shakes in the film."

They continued, eating and talking about movies, Jimmy's sisters, everything but cases and work. Even the silences, when they popped up, started becoming more comfortable, and by the time Tony checked his watch, it was almost midnight and he was on his fifth drink. He wasn't drunk, but he did feel pleasantly warm and Jimmy was being handed change even though Tony didn't remember getting a check.

"Jimmy," he said, leaning forward and finding himself feeling a bit dizzy. "You didn't pay for mine, did you?"

"Don't worry about it. You can get the next check," Jimmy said, his eyes hopeful behind the round glasses.

The agent wondered if Jimmy even knew how much Tony had needed this, how lonely his life had become in his constant pursuit of Gibbs' approval.

"Deal," Tony said, grinning. "But after that, we split checks. Otherwise, I think i's a date."

"Deal," Jimmy agreed, noting the slight slur in the agent's words. He pulled out his wallet to pocket the leftover change after leaving a generous tip. " 'Cause you have expensive taste in whiskey and this doesn't go as far as it used to."

Tony blinked blearily at the bills Jimmy was waving. "Holy shit, Jimmy, you're a genius."

The assistant raised an eyebrow, studying Tony's face. "Thank you?"

Tony grinned. "I need to get back to the Navy Yard."

Jimmy rolled his eyes and reached out a hand to steady the agent, who was swaying slightly on his feet. "You need to go home and sleep, Tony. Work can wait until morning."

"Uh-uh," Tony said, shaking his head. "Sleep is not an option until I check to see if I'm right about this."

"About what?" Jimmy asked, neatly snagging Tony's keys out of his hands. "And driving is not an option for you right now either."

"The bills," Tony said, wanting to be annoyed with Jimmy for the nagging and key-snatching. But the gremlin was right: Tony was in no shape to drive. "I know what's wrong with them. But I need to see them to make sure."

"And waiting until morning is not an option because…?" Jimmy trailed off, opening the door and following Tony out into the warm spring night.

"Jimmy," Tony said, stopping short on the sidewalk and turning to face the assistant. "If you opened up a body and found his liver missing, would you be able to sleep without knowing where it went?"

Jimmy considered that for a moment. "Fine. I see your point," he said, pocketing Tony's keys. "But you're coming with me, and I don't want to hear any protests."

"No, sir," Tony said, snapping off a sloppy salute with a smile.

As they walked toward the parking deck, Tony eyed his newfound friend and asked, "Any chance you drive a Gremlin, Gremlin?"

Jimmy laughed. "No. It's a boring old Camry," he said as they walked up the ramp, his eyes falling on a shiny Audi sports car. "I do sometimes wish I'd picked something more exciting, something more fun to drive, but you just really can't beat the fuel economy and safety ratings of a Camry. And the resale value for Toyotas is among the best of any brand these days. You drive a Mustang, right?"

Tony watched Jimmy's eyes linger on the Audi. "Yep. And you have the keys to it in your pocket, Jimbo."

Palmer stopped, his eyes almost as round as his glasses. "You'd… You'd let me drive your car?"

Tony shrugged and started walking in the opposite direction. "You're doing me a favor, Gremlin, driving my drunk ass back to work at midnight. Why not?"

"But you love that car," Jimmy said quietly, not moving.

Tony stopped, rolled his eyes, and walked back to grab Jimmy by the arm, dragging him higher in the parking deck and saying, "I said you could drive it—not break it. So don't break it." He released his hold and gave Jimmy a once-over as he fell into step beside him. "I have complete faith in your ability to get us to the Yard without killing us—or my baby."

"Thank you, Tony," Jimmy said, smiling again. "You know, Dr. Mallard and I did have a case of a missing organ once. There was this body that was pulled out of the Potomac, and it was a real mess—all gooey and drippy and—"

"Whoa there, Junior Duckman," Tony said, pausing beside his car and putting a hand to his stomach. "If you're gonna tell stories that are gonna make me puke, we're taking your car."

"Oh," Jimmy said sheepishly as he slid behind the wheel of the classic car. He slid the key into the ignition and grinned. "Okay."


	4. Chapter 4

They made it to the Navy Yard without incident.

Jimmy was grinning with the thrill of having put the sports car through its paces on the nearly deserted late-night streets of the District. Tony was happy he had made it through the bobbing and weaving without puking. It wasn't that Palmer was a bad driver; it was more that Tony had drank a bit more than he remembered. Funny how that sometimes happened.

Tony managed to make it through security without staggering or slurring, but he couldn't tame the slight trembling in his hands since it was more because of his excitement than the alcohol. He knew he was right about what was wrong with the fake bills. The elation he felt singing through his veins also had nothing to do with the scotch: It was a pure sense of achievement he felt, having solved the mystery no one else had been able to crack.

Suddenly, Gibbs' "You'll do" didn't quite hurt so much—the boss obviously thought he was capable of leading the team. Right? If Tony squinted, he could almost see the trust in those icy blue eyes that night, could almost feel Gibbs' hand squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. Gibbs never touched him other than to smack him—that gentle squeeze had to have meant something. Right? Not to mention Gibbs had given _Tony_ his badge and gun—not the director. That was important. Right?

Of course, squinting in his inebriated condition could also lead to falling over, so Tony focused on getting down to the evidence locker without embarrassing himself. He managed to punch in the correct security code on the first try, and he led Jimmy into the lock-up with a smile.

"You really are a genius, Jimbo," Tony said, pulling the box containing the cash from a shelf.

"I really didn't do anything," Palmer replied, watching Tony set a stack of twenties on a table. He raised an eyebrow at the sheer volume of the bills. "If I do some fake work, will you pay me with some of that fake cash?"

Tony grinned. "That's a lot of fake work. And I don't know where we'd get all those fake bodies." He cocked his head, considering. "We could break into the mall and you could go nuts autopsying the mannequins. But I doubt you'd find any of those organ-thingies you and Ducky so enjoy poking around in."

"Skinny bitches have no souls," Jimmy said with a sigh.

Tony gave him a look. "How much did _you _drink tonight, J Pa?" Tony winced and vowed never to use that particular nickname again. It was too close to what the press and others called Penn State's longtime coach. Tony silently sang the OSU fight song in his head as penance for invoking his rivals.

Palmer was talking and Tony stopped him, having not heard a word the gremlin had said. "One more time, J Palm? For the drunks in the room?" _Much better. Palmer might not have J Lo's ass, but at least she probably never wears Nittany blue. _

"I had a girlfriend who said that all the time," Jimmy said. "Speaking of missing organs, I didn't have the heart to tell her she was slightly underweight based on BMI."

"You weighed her?" Tony asked, thoroughly enjoying the inane conversation.

Jimmy pushed his glasses up his nose and hiked his chin. "I am a student of anatomy, Agent DiNozzo."

"And I am in a need of a new pickup line," Tony said. "So does that really work with the ladies?"

"Yeah," Jimmy said, nodding and studying a stack of bills. "But first you'd have to know a clavicle from a coccyx, and I doubt they teach that at the police academy."

It took Tony a moment to speak thanks to the shock of that Gibbs-esque insult. The boss had coached Tony and Kate on how to shoot, but apparently Palmer had also picked up on how to wound.

"Phys ed major," he countered, playing up the wounded tone but knowing it was his own fault everyone thought he was an idiot. He shook his head and chastised himself for being dumb enough to think anyone would ever want to look closer. "I know enough about asses to know where a coccyx is, Palmer."

Jimmy stopped eyeing the money and looked up at the agent's plastic smile. "I'm sorry, Tony," he said sincerely. "I didn't mean to upset you." He tried on a tiny little smile. "I'm sure you could name all 206 as you slowly broke every bone in my body."

Tony heard the genuine remorse in Jimmy's tone and he matched the small smile. "Whatever, Gremlin, I'm sure you could hold your own in a fight."

"Um, thanks? But I'd rather we not test that theory," Jimmy said, frowning down at the money. "Are you sure this is fake?"

"It's fake," Tony said, banishing the boss back to his beach in Mexico and focusing on the task at hand. This wasn't an autopsy, and Jimmy wasn't an agent, but Tony considered the gremlin part of his team and therefore wanted to let him try to figure it out on his own. He saw Jimmy start to squirm a little and Tony joked, "Faker than Pam Anderson's rack."

Palmer stopped fidgeting at that and he looked up at the agent. "Can I touch?"

"The cash? Yeah. Pam's rack? Probably not in this lifetime." Tony grinned and pulled a pair of gloves from a box on the table. He watched Jimmy snap them on and separate one twenty-dollar bill from the stack.

"I can tell you they feel perfectly real," Tony said. "And they burn like real money, too."

"Abby said the paper composition was off?" Palmer asked, holding a bill up to the poor lighting in the small room. He caught Tony's nod and continued, "So there's something visibly wrong with them, too, then." Jimmy closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. "What was it I said that was so genius? All I said was money doesn't go as far as it used to… Oh."

Palmer pulled out his wallet and set a single from his change at the restaurant on the table. He lined up a fake bill beside it and grinned up at Tony. "It's too small."

"That's what she said." Tony couldn't help himself.

And Jimmy grinned.

"But you're right," Tony said, feeling warring excitement and annoyance with himself. He should have seen it sooner. Much, much sooner. "We focused on everything else—the feel, the printing, the design, the paper's composition—and it was right there in front of us the whole time."

Jimmy heard the disgust in Tony's voice and could guess where the agent was placing all the blame, despite knowing the rest of the team had missed it, too. "The difference is a few millimeters at best. If you compared this to an older, well-circulated bill, you probably wouldn't even notice because of the wear and tear."

"Our dirtbag noticed right away," Tony said sourly, his earlier good mood vanishing as he realized finding the flaw didn't get them any closer to finding the dirtbag. "Or he was tipped, like McGee said. And figuring out what's wrong with the bills doesn't tell us which—or who killed the counterfeiter. It doesn't tell us anything except the buyer is smarter than I am."

Tony started shoving the bills back into the box, feeling embarrassed and frustrated. _Yeah, you'll do … as a placeholder—and nothing more. My leadership skills are as fake as this dollar bill. I should arrest myself for being a counterfeit leader,_ he thought, putting the box back on the shelf and looking at Jimmy. "I'm sorry I dragged you all the way down here for nothing. Gibbs would have smacked me into tomorrow for this."

"Tony," Palmer said firmly, waiting until he met his eyes. Jimmy wanted to say something again about Tony's unhealthy obsession with comparing himself to Gibbs, but the agent looked tired and defeated, so Jimmy gave him a lopsided smile and held up his watch. "It _is _tomorrow."

Tony tried to smile but it fell flat and he didn't try to force it. "And I'm drunk and need to be ready to lead my team in a few hours." He ran his hands over his face. "Take my car home, Jimmy. I'm going to stay here."

"Tony," Palmer said again.

"I don't need a lecture on drinking on school nights, Palmer," Tony said tiredly. "I know it was dumb, but if you're going to hang out with me, you should probably know that I screw up all the time. I'm unreliable, and selfish, and—"

"Tony," Palmer repeated, gently this time. "I was just going to say that Dr. Mallard doesn't lock his office. You should use his couch and get some sleep."

Tony stared at the floor long enough for Jimmy to have to remind himself that it was impossible for people to fall asleep standing up. Horses, yes; people, no. Tony finally looked up and offered a sincere, "Thanks, Jimmy. You really were a big help."

"Anytime," Jimmy said, following Tony out of the lock-up. "You know, I changed my mind."

Tony stopped at the door and waited.

Jimmy broke into a grin. "I guess we can talk shop." He shrugged. "Sometimes."

* * *

><p>Tony lay awake on Ducky's lumpy couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering how passing out had suddenly become so difficult. He was exhausted—both physically from a series of too-long days with too little sleep, and mentally, thanks to the strain of too many questions and too few answers. It was tiring keeping up the façade of "Everything's going to be fine" that he knew he needed to keep up for the sake of his broken team, and it was twice as hard to project confidence when he was feeling anything but. But he was the leader now—one who believed in leading by example—and falling apart was just not an example he wanted to set.<p>

So on he marched as if nothing were bothering him.

Honestly, he could get over the barbs and "You're not Gibbs" reminders from his team, because he knew they were all hurting over Gibbs' sudden departure and couldn't exactly sic the emotional fallout on the cause of all of that turmoil with Gibbs being so far away. Not to mention they had no way to reach him, even if they could find the words they needed or wanted to say to him. Tony had always imagined himself leading his own team someday. But he had also—foolishly, he realized now—imagined being able to give his mentor a call if he got stuck, or frustrated with his team, or simply needed a friendly ear.

He could get over the fact that his team seemed to have chosen him as a surrogate target. Funny how they mocked his ability to lead and attempts to emulate Gibbs and yet had no problems treating Tony as if _he_ were the leader who had abandoned them.

He could even get over his own feelings on Gibbs' leaving—because he was invoking his old standby of dealing with those emotions by simply not thinking about them.

But lying there in the dark with sleep a million miles away and all that scotch sloshing warmly through his veins, those emotions reared their ugly heads and Tony had to sit up—as though the pain suddenly crushing his chest were physical and could be alleviated by a simple change in position. He propped his elbows on his thighs and put his head in his hands, eyes open and staring at the floor both to quell his drink-induced nausea and to banish the memories.

But still the memories came, not needing the backs of his eyelids as screens for his painful home movies. He could still see the wave of red rushing at his face from the back of Kate's shattered skull even with his eyes wide open. He could still feel the hot stickiness and taste the coppery flavor of death.

He could still hear Gibbs' soft voice saying "You'll do" and feel that warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly as if the man had known even before Tony himself that he wanted comfort rather than congratulations after his sudden promotion.

The movies skipped back in time as he lay back down, remembering coming awake in a hospital bed as a young boy after a serious car accident to find his father standing at his bedside. "She's gone, Anthony," the man had said—and then walked away before little Tony barely had time to remember where his mother had been driving them or to ask why his chest hurt and he couldn't move his leg.

The selection of memories both unsettled him and confused him. Gibbs wasn't dead. And neither Kate nor his mother had purposely abandoned him.

But the deep, aching sense of loss was the same. Something had been stolen away, and even if Gibbs were to come strolling in and yell at Tony for lying down on the job, things would never be quite the same.

Tony wondered what would happen if he went and found Gibbs, told his boss how much he meant to him, how much he missed him, and begged him to come back and restore the sense of stability he had been searching for most of his life—and thought he had found in Gibbs.

And then he wondered how many drinks he had downed during dinner.

He shook his head, knowing Gibbs would probably laugh him out of his beach cabana and headslap him back to the District.

With a sigh pulled from the bottom of his tired soul, Tony abandoned the memories and ruthlessly shoved aside his pain, flipping onto his stomach and burying his face in the crook of his arm, determined to get at least an hour or so of actual sleep. He tried thinking happy thoughts, attempting to picture Gibbs relaxed and carefree on a pristine shore, away from the painful memories of his lost family and the avoidable tragedy of those lost sailors aboard the Cape Fear.

But thinking of that crime had his thoughts returning to his current case, his exhausted mind asking over and over one new question he obviously had no answer to.

_Why would anyone counterfeit a one-dollar bill? _


	5. Chapter 5

Jimmy walked into the darkened autopsy suite humming a tune from his barbershop days.

By the time he had flipped on all the lights and cleaned his first row of pipettes, he was singing out loud, his mood buoyed by last night's companionable dinner and this morning's exhilarating slicing and dicing through the infamous Beltway traffic in Tony's classic car. He was just considering the trade-in value of his Camry when he heard the pressurized doors swish open and his colleague's lilting greeting.

"Good morning, Mr. Palmer. You are in rather early, aren't you?"

"These pipettes won't clean themselves," Jimmy said with a smile. He saw the doctor heading for his office and spoke up quickly—and only a tad nervously, "Oh, Dr. Mallard? I hope you don't mind, but I told Tony—um, Agent DiNozzo—that he could use your sofa for the night since he was here so late. He's probably still asleep in there."

"I don't mind at all," Ducky said, setting his case on his desk rather than entering the office. He glanced at the closed door and shook his head. "Rather, I should say I don't mind your letting him rest there. But I do think I might need to have a talk with the lad about taking better care of himself. He won't be any good to anyone if he continues running himself into the ground like this."

Jimmy simply nodded, silently wishing the doctor good luck in that conversation after having seen up close and personal the depth of Tony's stubbornness last night.

"I am terribly sorry about abandoning you yesterday," Ducky said, sifting through a file on his desk. "I presume all was well here?"

"How presumptuous of you," Jimmy said, grimacing when Dr. Mallard arched an eyebrow at him. "Um, so… How is your mother this morning?" he asked quickly to skirt the awkwardness of his latest faux pas.

"She is fine," Ducky said, giving a long-suffering sigh. "_Today._ Unlike yesterday when she was in a fit because her regular nurse was unavailable. The replacement was in the house not five minutes when Mother spat on the poor woman's shoes and accused her of being a stripper."

Jimmy had no idea what to say to that and he was infinitely grateful for the voice he heard coming from the office.

"I've heard of strippers dressing like nurses, Duckman, but real nurses sporting stripper shoes?" Tony leaned against the doorway and yawned. "Can you get me her number? I might be in need of her services."

"I should say so," Ducky said, frowning at the sleep-rumpled agent. "You look dreadful, Anthony."

Tony put his hand to his face, feigning checking for blood. "Ouch. You're a doctor, Duck—don't you know you're supposed to heal wounds? Not inflict them?" He turned to Jimmy. "Palmer, tell me I'm still pretty," he said with dramatically batted eyelashes and hands clasped in front of him.

Jimmy just smiled, but Ducky was still frowning as he set the file on his desk and approached the agent. "Your health is nothing to joke about. Am I to assume you're too tired to remember that only Gibbs calls me 'Duck'?"

"I…"

Jimmy watched Tony blink at Ducky's rare harsh tone and he wanted to say something to lighten the mood, but Tony simply nodded, his eyes going blank as he looked slightly down at the doctor.

"Won't happen again, Dr. Mallard," the agent said, turning and leaving before another word was spoken.

Jimmy studied his pipettes with more interest than they warranted, debating whether he should say something or not. He also wondered why everyone seemed to think Tony was immune to very same pain they were all feeling, especially considering Tony had been with Gibbs longer than any of them except Dr. Mallard—and probably Abby. Sure, Tony had gotten a promotion, but Palmer doubted this was even remotely how the agent would have imagined getting it. He wondered if anyone had even congratulated Tony on his new position—or realized the extent of the extra responsibilities dropped so suddenly onto unsuspecting shoulders.

"Whatever has gotten into him already this morning?" Ducky mused aloud, returning to his desk.

Jimmy knew the question was likely rhetorical, but his mouth was suddenly moving and he was surprised to find he didn't regret this particular slip.

"I don't think he needs anyone else telling him he's not Gibbs."

Ducky stopped midstride and turned to his assistant, his brow furrowing. "Well I never said…" He shook his head and turned his gaze to the floor. "What I should have said was that I didn't particularly need a reminder of my absent friend."

Jimmy heard the slight strain in the words, and he hesitated a moment before saying, "You're angry with him, aren't you?"

"With Gibbs?" Ducky clarified—unnecessarily, Jimmy thought, because he knew the doctor hadn't meant to upset Tony. "Yes, I am. And even if I weren't angry with him for leaving without saying a single word to me—when he had plenty of opportunities to do so—I would be angry with him for the way he left this team. Jethro may well be inept when it comes to emotions, but the man is not stupid. He knows full well that we think of him as much more than a colleague. He is like a surrogate father to young Abby, and to be quite honest, I am shocked that she hasn't yet melted into a puddle of grief. And Timothy—and even Ziva—are both obviously upset, considering their treatment of Anthony, who," Ducky paused to take a breath and wag a finger in the air, "is not taking this nearly as well as he would like us all to think. One has only to look at him this morning—bleary-eyed, pale, and smelling slightly of alcohol—to see that. Honestly, I wonder when he last sat down to a decent meal."

"Last night," Jimmy answered, drawing a surprised look from the doctor. Palmer smiled sheepishly. "He asked me if I wanted to get a drink with him, and I agreed. I also kind of forced him into ordering dinner while we were at the bar."

Ducky was silent a moment, eyes appraising as he looked over his assistant. Finally, he said, "You were out drinking at a bar with Anthony last night?"

"Um, yes," Jimmy said, nervously.

Ducky nodded and broke into a smile. "Good for you, Mr. Palmer. The lad could certainly use a friend right now."

* * *

><p>Tony sat down at his desk—Gibbs' desk, because he had foolishly thought rearranging might help—and stared at the empty one across from him, wondering when Jenny would give him another agent. He tried not to think too much about the implications of her leaving an open spot on the team.<p>

Hope was a dangerous thing these days.

A small part of him wanted a new agent assigned to his team, someone brand-new who had never heard of Gibbs and whom Tony could mold into someone who might be on his side.

The rest of him wanted Gibbs back.

Tony realized he would gladly suffer the shortest promotion ever if it meant working with his mentor again every day. It wasn't that he didn't want his own team, it wasn't that he didn't want _this_ team, eventually. He just didn't want to have acquired this team in this way. Gibbs had always been the epitome of strength to Tony, and while losing his family all over again was a damned good reason to cut and run, Tony was still having trouble reconciling that action with Gibbs' long-standing tactic of facing problems head-on. A wry smile touched his lips as Tony imagined the team needling Gibbs for pulling a DiNozzo and running instead of staying and dealing. Apparently Gibbs just had a much longer expiration date than Tony's two years.

The elevator dinged and Tony saw Ziva's sharp eyes appraising his rumpled clothes. He wished he had gone straight to the locker room, but he hadn't been expecting his team for another half-hour.

"You're here early," he said by way of the greeting she didn't offer as she sat at her desk.

"I got a good night's sleep," she said, without looking at him.

_You're welcome_, Tony thought, suddenly angry. He grabbed his bag and stalked off without a word, wishing like hell he had managed to actually sleep the night before and knowing it was going to be a long day.

By the time he stripped off his wrinkled clothes and stepped into the shower, his temper was as hot as the water pouring down onto his tense shoulders.

_What more do they want from me?_ he wondered, bracing his hands against the tile and letting his head hang. _If I bark at them like Gibbs barked at all of us, they roll their eyes at me, but if I try to treat them like the talented investigators they are, they look at me like they're waiting for the other shoe to drop. _

_And I don't want to bark at them. But I don't want to treat them with kid gloves, either. I just want to be myself _and_ be the leader of this team. _

_Why is that so hard? _

Tony turned the water up hotter—knowing he'd probably look like a lobster when he emerged from the shower—because he didn't like the answer to that question. At least, the partial answer that came quickly to mind wasn't exactly pleasant.

_I'm a liar. _

_I hide who I am to fit in._

_I am whoever I need to be at any given moment. _

_And with a leader like Leroy Jethro Gibbs around, I rarely had to be one myself. _

_It's not that I don't know how to lead; it's more like I'm out of practice. There are days when I realize I've shed my varsity team captain skin and morphed into this amorphous persona I now feel like I need, and I'm not sure whether I should be disgusted with losing myself or proud of my ability to adapt. _

_Honestly, I'm pretty sick of adapting. _

Tony finished washing up and shut the water off with a smack that left his hand stinging.

_And now I have to go reinvent myself yet again._

_And just hope that this new version is good enough._


	6. Chapter 6

Tony returned to the squad room slightly calmer, only by sheer force of will, to find McGee and Ziva staring at images on the plasma of the money—specifically the $186—that had been found beside the body. He thought about sneaking up on them—it was kinda fun, he had to admit—but instead he tossed his bag behind Gibbs' desk—_his _desk—from halfway across the room.

"It's been bugging me all night, too," he said, coming to stand slightly behind and between his agents.

McGee tossed a glance over his shoulder, taking in Tony's damp hair with an expression bordering on guilt. "It's so close to perfect," he said, turning back to the screen. "Why not take it anyway?"

"Even if the killer did not want to chance spending it, why would he leave it as a clue?" Ziva added.

Tony fought a sigh, having thought they were all on the same page. But he just nodded. "Good questions. Also, why would anyone spend this much time counterfeiting such small bills?"

Neither agent spoke, and Tony cleared his throat after a moment. "That was a question," he said mildly. "And we need to find an answer."

McGee spun around, the earlier guilt gone from his eyes as he asked, exasperated, "What do you want to hear, DiNozzo? I. Don't. Know." He huffed a half-sigh. "There, I said it. Are you happy?"

Tony held up his hands but refused to take a step back. "Whoa, Probie. I guess that time off last night was just another of my dumb ideas." He saw the guilt start to creep back in and he knew it was because McGee was seeing the dark circles under his boss's eyes. "I don't know the answer either—or I wouldn't be asking. I just want to hear some theories."

McGee and Ziva exchanged a look that made Tony ache. He recognized it as one he had shared with both of them mere months ago.

He forced aside the painful nostalgia and replaced it with pride as his agents both began to speak at once, both determined to meet the challenge head-on and try to impress the boss with a viable theory.

Tony held up a hand. "Sorry, Ziva. McGee's first." He faked a smile. "Alphabetically speaking."

Ziva gave him a rather lethal look, and Tony wondered if—even in his wildest dreams—he had ever imagined a Mossad assassin being under his command. He decided that was a definite no.

"David comes before McGee," Ziva grumbled.

"But Tim comes before Ziva," McGee said. He nodded at Tony's glare and got back to the case. "What if the counterfeiter didn't spend a lot of time on the smaller bills? Maybe he found a way to scan and duplicate any bill, with the same amount of work going into each process, no matter what the bill looks like?"

Tony nodded slowly. "That would explain the variety of bills," he said, watching Ziva frown a little. He looked at McGee. "Is that possible? Technologically?"

McGee's face fell a little. "Maybe. But it would be quite a feat with all the microprinting. And we're talking big bucks, really, to come up with that kind of technology—like the backing of a small country."

"_Not_ one man selling a hundred thousand dollars in an alley," Ziva said, her frown disappearing as she got her chance to advance her theory. She glanced back at the close-ups of the bills on the screen. "What if that hundred thousand is counterfeit, and the $186 is real money. If the buyer figured out the counterfeiter was lying about being able to duplicate the small bills, that might explain why he killed him."

"Except," McGee said before Tony could even open his mouth, "Abby tested all of the small bills and found them all to be counterfeit." He zoomed out on the photos and shot Tony a smile. "That's why all the corners are cut off. She needed samples to run through the mass spec."

Ziva frowned at the screen, obviously scrambling to come up with a new theory. A quick look at McGee told Tony the probie was doing the same.

"There were three," Tony said softly, looking from one agent to the other, watching them both go quiet and listen to him. "I couldn't figure out why there would be three people in the alley. You figure one counterfeiter, one buyer. Why invite a witness?"

"Muscle?" Ziva offered. "To protect the buyer and his real cash?"

Tony cocked his head, staring at the small bills on the plasma. "Maybe." He glanced at his agents again, both so suddenly eager to please him. "Or one buyer, two counterfeiters. Maybe it was a contest. The small bills could have been one guy showing off."

"Perhaps the killer is not the buyer," Ziva said, nodding, "but the other counterfeiter."

"He could have gotten angry when he lost the contest," McGee said, picking up the thread, "and then killed the competition."

Tony nodded, his pleased smile at his agents fading slightly as he thought about that scenario. "Why would the counterfeiters agree to the joint meet-up, though? I'd be wary of another party. I'd probably think it was a setup."

There was a short silence, and just as Tony opened his mouth to prompt them to start talking again—even if it was just to say whatever they were thinking—McGee spoke up.

"Maybe the buyer didn't tell them they were going to be meeting their competition," he said, flicking the screen to the photos of Jansen's body. "That could explain why someone ended up dead instead of all parties just walking away from the deal."

Ziva pointed to the multiple lacerations on the victim's face. "That is not a simple bullet to the head for a failed job," she said, nodding in agreement. "This kind of damage usually means rage. If the other counterfeiter felt like a failure, the beating makes sense."

"And it gets rid of superior competition," McGee said. "The killer wouldn't have to worry about losing any more jobs to Jansen."

Tony considered the theory, staring at the floor long enough for Ziva's voice—and nudge in the ribs—to make him blink and check his watch. "What?" he asked, wondering how long they had been trying to get his attention.

"What is still bothering you?" she asked, her tone revealing only a tiny bit of the concern showing openly on McGee's face.

Tony smiled faintly, wondering if her ability to read him was a good thing or not—and again wishing he had gotten more sleep the night before. "I still can't figure out why they left the money," he admitted, truly puzzled. He looked from one agent to the other. "You know what we need?"

"I think this already is a campfire," McGee said, looking sideways at Tony for confirmation. "Isn't it?"

"I'd say so," Tony said, happy that at least one of his ideas had apparently stuck—and wasn't being mocked. "I was thinking re-enactment."

"Okay," McGee said, sliding another look at Tony and breaking into a grin. "But only if there's no poo bucket involved."

Tony rolled his eyes and faked a smile, knowing McGee was just trying to keep it light and couldn't know how much those particular memories unsettled him. Tony wondered if his father had ever realized that the demeaning job kept not only father and son apart but also isolated him from the other boys, who got to march around with bugles or flags, or tend to the horses.

Tony shoved the thoughts of those miserable weekends out of his head and said, "I'll be the buyer. McGee, you're Jansen. Ziva, you be the killer."

She smiled predatorily. "Gladly."

McGee gulped.

Tony grinned.

"Let's say I didn't tell either of you that your competition would be here," Tony said, turning to Ziva. "So it's possible you _aren't_ the killer. You see Jansen's product, realize it's better than yours, and then you take off right away."

Ziva nodded. "That would make you the killer," she said, glancing from Tony to the photo of Jansen's bloody face. "Perhaps you desperately needed the counterfeit bills, saw the size error, and then beat Jansen to death for his mistake."

"Maybe," Tony said, frowning. "But if I'm desperate enough to kill him, why not take the cash and try to pass it off anyway? It really is almost perfect."

"I like the other counterfeiter as the killer, too," McGee said.

Tony gave him a look, silently asking why and hoping the probie wasn't taking his side just to one-up Ziva. The competition Gibbs had fostered among the team often produced results, but Tony also knew it could get out of hand and distract from the focus on the case.

"Because of the rage," McGee said. "I think the other counterfeiter saw Jansen's fake bills and went nuts and killed him."

Tony nodded, acknowledging the viable theory. "So if I'm the buyer, what am I doing while you're beating the crap outta Jansen?"

The question was directed toward Ziva because she was playing the killer, but she frowned and asked another question. "And when do I kill you, McGee?"

"Hopefully never," Tony said, smiling at the look on the probie's face. He saw Ziva roll her eyes with a hint of a smile and he continued, "But that's a good question. If you flip out as soon as you see Jansen's product, maybe the buyer runs off immediately. That would explain why _he_ would leave the cash."

"But if I just killed a man for his superior work," Ziva said, not sounding terribly bothered by that possibility, "then why would I not take it and try to learn from it?"

No one had an answer. So they continued posing questions and trying to come up with answers, and that continued long enough for Tony's stomach to growl, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since his dinner with Jimmy the night before. By that time, the re-enactments had devolved into a frustrated Ziva mimicking all the better ways there were to kill someone without beating the daylights out of them.

Tony finally sighed and said, "This isn't helping." He sank onto the edge of his desk—his old desk—and scrubbed his hands over his face. He let out a long breath and stretched, his back popping loudly but easing the ache that had settled in thanks to his night on Ducky's lumpy couch. He wished again that he had spent that time sleeping instead of comparing himself to Gibbs. He knew it wasn't a fair fight—wouldn't ever be a fair fight.

He opened his eyes to find his agents exchanging a look. "Yeah, I know," he said tiredly. "Gibbs never would have let us play charades this long. Especially since we haven't figured out a damned thing."

"Tony," McGee said, sympathy in his eyes instead of the scorn Tony had been expecting. The probie slid another glance at Ziva and smiled a little. "I learned six more ways Ziva can kill me without a weapon. That has to count for something."

Tony watched Ziva grin at that and he shoved off his old desk and went to sit at his new one. "Don't worry, McGoo, Ziva wouldn't kill you. She's better than that." He paused, cocked his head to the side and studied the Mossad officer.

Ziva put a hand on her hip and shook out her wild curls, batting her eyelashes at Tony and asking, seductively, "Like what you see, Tony?"

Tony blinked. "Rule 12 still exists even if the boss is … not here," he finished lamely, kicking himself for even starting that sentence out loud. Before either junior agent could speak, he met Ziva's eyes and said, "But what if you are better? And by you, I mean the other counterfeiter. Just because we were fooled by Jansen's bills doesn't mean these two were. What if your product was better and you made the deal with the buyer?"

"That would explain why Jansen's cash was left by his body," McGee said, looking slightly annoyed that he hadn't come up with that himself.

But Ziva was shaking her head. "But it does not explain why Jansen is now just a body. Why kill him?"

"Maybe I got violent when the buyer chose you as the winner," McGee said, picking up their earlier roles.

"Does not explain the enraged beating," Ziva said. "A bullet in the head would have calmed you down sufficiently."

Tony shivered a little at that—and figured McGee did, too—but he found himself smiling anyway as a new idea came to mind. "What if Jansen threatened to rat on the buyer or the other counterfeiter? He's pissed because he lost the contest, so he decides to get even. He starts mouthing off, one or both of them shuts him up—permanently—and they leave the money beside him as a final insult. They walk away, knowing we can't trace Jansen's money back to either of them."

"DiNozzo!"

Tony tensed in anticipation of the headslap a split second before registering the owner of the voice that had barked his name. He turned slowly toward the elevator, hoping to erase the childish sadness from his expression before facing Abby.

"Gibbs!" he said, grinning. "So you ran off to Mexico for a sex change? My compliments to the surgeon." Tony saw Ziva smirk from the corner of his eye, but he got up and immediately went and put gentle hands on Abby's shoulders when he saw the tears spring up in her pretty green eyes. She was blinking furiously so he pulled her closer and whispered into her dark hair, "I'm so sorry, Abbs."

He could feel her shaking and he hoped like hell his own stupid joke wouldn't be the thing that finally made her melt into the sobbing puddle of grief they were all expecting sooner or later. Honestly, Tony was impressed she had held it together this long because they could all see that the scientist was barely holding on. But it didn't make him feel any less guilty over his dumb comment.

Tony blinked in surprise when he felt her put both hands on his chest and shove—hard.

"Am I a part of this team, DiNozzo?" she asked, the tears still glistening in her eyes, but not falling.

Tony just looked at her, suddenly understanding why Gibbs didn't let them prattle on about their personal lives, why he didn't seem to care about their problems, or their personal triumphs. As a leader, DiNozzo knew he needed to send Abby back to her lab and find the killer. But his friendship with the tearful Goth made him want to forget the case and apologize until he was blue in the face.

"Of course you are, Abby," he said, looking down into suddenly angry eyes. He realized her anger was more cutting than her sadness, but he wasn't exactly sure why. Mostly, he found himself wishing—for the thousandth time—that things could just be normal again.

"Then maybe you should check with me before you say this team can't trace the killer through Jansen's money," she said, haughty but still trying to blink tears from her eyes. It wasn't working. Those tears brimmed and spilled down her cheeks, one black droplet landing on Tony's wrist as she tried to turn away from him despite his hands on her shoulders. "Please don't fire me, Tony," she whispered, not looking at him.

He hugged her tightly again, feeling her desperation in the grip she had on the back of his shirt, but not entirely sure if it was fear for her career that had her so upset. He almost wished it was. He would feel less guilty that way.

"Talk to me, Abby," he said softly, ignoring the impatience on Ziva's face and the jealousy on Tim's as the Goth stood there, clinging to him without even a millimeter of space between them. "Please?"

She pushed away from him, slowly this time, and stared at his face as if surprised to be seeing him standing there. Tony felt a sharp stab of pain, knowing his "please" had reminded her that it was not Gibbs' comforting embrace she had been standing in. He felt oddly used, but he just stared back, willing her to talk.

"I screwed up," she said quietly, shrugging off his hand as he tried to lead her to sit at the nearest desk. "Don't be nice to me. I screwed up. Gibbs wouldn't be nice to me. He'd be demanding answers."

Tony took a step back, feeling bereft at the loss of her touch, but he erased all emotion from his voice and said, "I'm not Gibbs. Just tell me what happened."

"I dusted the case for prints—inside and outside and topside and bottomside…" She sighed, gathering her strength. "And then I dusted the cash and the paper bands holding the bills together."

"And got nothing," McGee said.

Abby looked at him as if remembering he had been standing there the whole time. "Thanks for that, Timmy," she said, shaking her head. "But I got nothing. So I put everything back in the case and took it to the evidence locker. And that's where I screwed up."

Tony frowned, searching through his drunken haze the night before for the memory he was looking for. "It was all there last night. I saw it. And I saw your signature on the log. Everything was fine."

She frowned at him, studying him as if seeing his exhaustion for the first time. "No, it wasn't all there," she said, sighing harshly. She started to speak but was cut off before she could get a word out.

"You go on a shopping spree, Abby?" McGee joked, earning himself a glare from both his boss and the scientist.

"The money was all there," Tony said. "I opened the case, saw the stacks. I even pulled some of it out and looked at it. That's how I found the size problem. It was all there, Abbs."

"Yes, the _money_ was all there," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "Would you just let me talk? I'd kill for Gibbs and his glares right now. He could have said all of that in just a look."

Tony kept his mouth shut and simply raised an eyebrow, unwilling to glare at Abby when she seemed so close to breaking.

"Terrible," Abby said, but she smiled a little. "But you're not even trying."

"Abby—" Ziva started, bouncing as if she might explode before getting an answer to the question still hanging in the air.

"I found one of the paper bands stuck to the leg of my lab table today," Abby said in a rush. She looked at them all, as if they should understand. "It never made it to the evidence locker," she clarified.

Tony nodded, thinking he understood the problem. "It's not a big deal," he said. "Chain of evidence doesn't really matter since you didn't find…"

He stopped. Considered the look in her eyes.

"Except that you did find something," he said slowly, trying to remember what she had said when she had stormed the squad room moments before. It was hard. He decided he really needed to get more sleep. "You found a print that wasn't Jansen's."

She nodded.

Tony cringed.

But then Abby smiled. "But not on the band that was stuck to the table," she said. "Finding that band made me realize the bands stayed sticky even after they had been pulled apart. And then I realized that maybe the killer had opened one of the stacks of twenties and then put the band back around the bills. I rechecked all of the bands in the evidence locker, and I found a print on the inside of the very last one I checked."

Abby was still smiling when she finished, but then she started to waver again. She looked up at Tony, stepping in closer and touching his arm. "So am I fired?"

He reached out and brushed the dried, teary mascara off her cheek. "Of course not. You just made our first real break in this case." He paused. "Besides, I don't have the authority to fire you, Abby, even if I were dumb enough to try to."

"Neither did Gibbs," she said, eyeing Tony's reaction to that. She smiled a little when he smiled a little. "I told him that all the time—"

"And you are still alive?" Ziva asked, arching an eyebrow.

Tony waited for Abby to crumble—because they all knew the reason she got away with teasing Gibbs was because she was special to him. He gave Ziva his best glare.

But the Goth just nodded enthusiastically. "I know, right?" She straightened up and looked at each agent in turn. "What are you all still doing here? Go get the bad guy!"

They exchanged looks.

She sighed.

"It would probably help if I gave you a name and address, huh?" she said, producing an itty bitty sticky note from the itty bitty pocket of her itty bitty plaid skirt. She held it out to Tony, grabbing his hand as he reached for it.

She wiped her blackened teardrop from his wrist and winced. "Sorry."

He lifted a shoulder. "Don't be."

Their eyes met and they both smiled—sadly. "Sign of weakness," they said in unison.

She stood on her toes, raising up only slightly thanks to her platform boots to kiss his cheek, and she ordered, softly, "_Now_ you should go get the bad guy."


	7. Chapter 7

The team filed back into the squad room seven hours later, all tired and grumpy from the two-hour, traffic-knotted car ride out to their suspect's home near Sparrows Point in Edgemere, Maryland, the three hours spent searching the home and grounds, and the two-hour ride back—made worse by the fact that it had been raining and they were all wet and cold.

And their suspect had been nowhere around.

Ziva dropped her bag behind her desk and sank into her chair, only to pop up again when she realized drenching her seating arrangements for what was going to be a long night was probably a bad idea. She pulled pants and a soft green sweater from her bottom drawer, glad she had something warm to put on after being out in the spring rain, surprisingly cold thanks to the wind blowing in off the bay.

"I still do not understand how Maryland has a western shore," she said, watching McGee digging clothes from his desk, too.

The agent stopped, looked up, and then went back to his digging. "The eastern part of Maryland is on a peninsula," he said, sounding distracted as he plunked a fresh shirt onto his desk, "with the Chesapeake Bay splitting the state almost in two. Both shores of the upper bay are part of Maryland; ergo, eastern and western shores."

" 'Ergo,' Probie?" came Tony's tired, muffled voice.

McGee and Ziva turned to see their boss slumped on his desk, his face buried in his dripping sleeves.

"What's wrong with 'ergo'?" McGee asked, studying Tony's wet shirt and knowing it was the spare the agent kept in his desk.

"It's just so… 'ergo'," Tony said, not lifting his head. "What does that even mean?"

"Ergo," McGee repeated, as if that explained everything. He continued at the silence. "As in, 'therefore'. As in, 'Tony, you look like one of Ducky's corpses; _ergo,_ you should go put some dry clothes on.' "

Tony sat up, slowly, his green eyes standing out against the pallor of his skin. Ziva watched him, wondering what McGee had said to make Tony look so suddenly haunted.

McGee didn't have to wonder. He knew as soon as the words came out of his mouth that he had repeated Gibbs' oddly gentle order from the night Kate had died—verbatim, if his memory served. It wasn't really a surprise because he had been thinking about Kate most of the ride back, thanks to the driving rain and Tony's attempts to cover his slight wheezing with too many jokes. Tim would always equate Tony's colds with Kate's death, his teammate's slightest sneeze often making his own heart skip a beat.

"Here," Tim said, dropping his dry shirt next to Tony's wet arm. "You take this. I have gym clothes I can put on." He waited for some comment about his workout efforts, but it never came.

Tony just eyed the shirt for a moment as if uncertain whether he should actually take it.

"Go," McGee said, frowning at him. "You're dripping all over your keyboard, and I don't want to have to fix it."

Tony nodded and got up, stifling a little cough. "Thanks," he said. "I'll be right back. Tim—"

"Take the evidence down to Abby," the probie said, nodding.

"And I will check on the BOLO," Ziva said, not entirely understanding McGee's concern as he stared at their boss. But she did see it, and she said, "And then I will order dinner. Pizza, Tony? Or Chinese?"

"Uh, doesn't matter," Tony said, drawing a surprised look from Ziva.

The agent walked out of the room, and McGee watched him go before turning back to find Ziva planted in his way. He raised an eyebrow at her, simultaneously wondering why she was suddenly standing close enough to touch and how he hadn't noticed her movements.

_Maybe Tony's right about that ninja chick thing_, Tim thought.

"What is wrong with Tony?" she asked.

Tim was tempted to lie—it wasn't really anyone's business but Tony's—but the look on Ziva's face made lying seem like a very dumb idea.

"Come on, McGee," she said impatiently. "We are partners. And he is our … teammate, too. And that look on his face was clearly pain—though I am not entirely sure if it was physical or otherwise. And he is white as a sheep, and—"

Tim couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. "White as a 'sheet', Ziva," he corrected once he had recovered the ability to speak through his giggles.

The Israeli just eyed him. "Are sheep not also white, McGee?"

"Uh," McGee said, cocking his head. "You know, they are, aren't they? The ones in kids' books anyway, because I doubt a real sheep on a real farm is quite that… um, pristine," he finished, gulping at the look on Ziva's face.

"What is wrong with Tony?" she asked again, her staccato words like premonitions of gunfire. "He kept putting his hand to his chest, only to move it quickly whenever he noticed I was watching him."

McGee considered that, wondering why Ziva had noticed and he hadn't. He shook his head. "He's probably getting a cold or something. He had the plague, you know."

"I know," was all Ziva said. She took a tiny step back, moving only slightly out of Tim's space. "Should we make him go home to rest?"

Another small laugh escaped, but McGee stifled it quickly. "Good luck with that. He was back at work within a couple of weeks." He bit his lip, looking away and wincing when his gaze fell on Ziva's desk—_Kate's_ desk. He shook his head slightly, not needing a reminder that he had lost two members of his team now. The thought had registered, though, and it made him wonder if he had been shoving Tony away out of fear of losing him, too.

"Oh, so it was not that serious then?"

Ziva's voice snapped McGee out of his fog and he spoke without really thinking, thoughts of losing Tony obviously affecting his words. "Kate and I took turns holding his hand that first night, making jokes about 'getting lucky' and beating the nearly overwhelming odds that he would die while we sat there, with nothing to do to help him but listen to him cough and wipe the blood from his mouth." McGee stopped for a breath and looked up. "You, uh, probably shouldn't tell him that. I don't think he even remembers it."

Ziva met his gaze with a rare soft compassion. "It sounds like you were just being good friends to him. That is nothing to be ashamed of."

McGee just nodded and picked up the box of evidence, not bothering to tell her it was more for Tony's sake that no one ever brought up his near-death experience. Tim hadn't really understood at the time when Tony had practically begged them to leave him alone—but he got it completely when, an hour later, he had held his shaking, sweat-soaked partner in his arms while Tony hacked up blood, both of them painfully aware of the tears leaking down his pale cheeks, a product of pain, exhaustion and the sheer effort of trying to clear his flooded lungs.

"You should order Chinese," McGee said. "And get lots of soup."

* * *

><p>Tony stood with his hands braced against the bathroom sink, hunched over in pain as the brutal coughing fit made it feel like his lungs had been replaced with shattered glass, the jagged little fragments rattling around in his chest as he fought to breathe normally.<p>

He closed his eyes against the black spots swirling through his vision like charred snowflakes and tried to gulp in air between the wet, hacking coughs racking his body. He fought the familiar panic that always flooded through him when these attacks caught him alone, and he wondered if this would be the time when he wouldn't be able to catch his breath.

Dying on a bathroom floor was not extremely high on his list of acceptable ways to go.

"Tony."

The firm voice accompanied a soft touch against his back, but Tony was too busy gasping to acknowledge either.

"I'm going to hit you. Here," the voice said, tapping his back with both hands, just below his shoulder blades. "We need to get that crap out of your lungs."

Tony nodded, bracing for the twin blows, but they landed hard and fast against his weakened body, and he sagged against the counter, his head swimming as he tried to stay upright. He felt an arm go around him as his helper wedged between him and the sink, holding him up.

"I need to do chest percussions," the voice said. "Can you stand on your own?"

The agent managed another nod and waited for the blows against his ribs that would loosen the mucus in his lungs. Two cupped hands hit him, forcefully but not causing pain, and then again, higher against his chest. The sound of the blows was hollow, as he knew it should be, and Tony was glad for the skilled hands helping him.

"You need to cough now. Deep, slow breath in," the voice coached, now coming from slightly behind him. The arm stayed around his chest, though, supportive but not constricting. "Contract your upper abdominal muscles and cough hard."

Tony did as he was told, gagging as he brought up fluid that he didn't dare check for blood. He hated admitting—even to himself—how much those little red flecks scared him.

"Done?"

Tony nodded again and allowed himself to be lowered to the floor and propped against the cool tile wall. He decided to test his ability to speak, but he didn't open his eyes, afraid of shedding the tears brought by the effort of the coughing.

"This wasn't… exactly… what I meant… when I said… you could take me… in a fight… Gremlin."

Jimmy's soft laugh made Tony jump as he realized the assistant was sitting on the floor beside him.

"Maybe when you're feeling better, we can duke it out in the ring."

Tony drew a shuddery breath, kicking himself for not being more careful after he had felt this infection settling in days ago. "I feel… fine."

Jimmy snorted. "Oh, I'm sorry. So that _wasn't_ you just hacking up a lung in here?"

Tony opened his eyes long enough for a short glare. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Palmer."

"And stupidity doesn't suit you, DiNozzo," Jimmy said without missing a beat. "You know you can't let yourself get this bad. Not unless you _want_ to end up in a hospital with pneumonia."

"It… came on kinda… quick," Tony said, trying not to pant between words and failing miserably.

Jimmy rolled his eyes even though Tony's were still shut tightly, whether in pain or embarrassment he didn't know. "That kind of mucus buildup doesn't happen during an afternoon in the rain. You know that, and I know that. And you know I know that. So don't lie to either of us, okay?"

"I'm sorry," Tony said, meaning it. He was just so tired... He frowned, meeting Jimmy's eyes. "How did you know I was… out in the rain all afternoon?"

"Really?" Palmer asked, raising an eyebrow and scanning the shivering agent sitting beside him. "You're dripping all over the floor, Tony."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "You should have let McGee and Ziva wander outside in the rain, if it needed to be done."

Tony's laugh turned quickly into a cough, and he took the paper towels Jimmy was offering, spitting thick fluid into them and feeling slightly better now that the junk wasn't clogging his lungs. He watched as Palmer took the towels and checked the contents before throwing the wad away.

"No blood," Jimmy said, settling back in beside the agent and grabbing Tony's arm as he tried to get up. "Sit here and rest for a few minutes. You'll pass out if you stand up now."

"DiNozzos do not pass out," Tony grumbled.

Palmer rolled his eyes again. "That's like saying supermodels don't fart. Seems like it should be true, but it's totally bogus."

Tony laugh-coughed again, but he was glad to find it was a dry hack this time. He felt Jimmy's eyes on him and he sighed carefully. "Say it, Palmster."

"Why didn't you?" he asked, even though he figured he already knew the answer. "Why not have your agents search out in the rain while you checked inside?"

"Why would I make them stay out in the rain while I stayed nice and warm and dry inside?" Tony returned.

"I can think of two reasons, right off the top of my head," Jimmy said. "A, you have extensive scarring in your lungs because you had the damned plague—the _pneumonic _plague—and that makes you vulnerable to respiratory infections, which you know. And you knew you were getting sick."

Choosing to ignore all that, Tony asked, knowing the answer, "And B?"

Jimmy glared as if he had wanted some acknowledgment of his words—some indication that Tony knew just how dangerous this condition could be for him. "And B, you're their boss, Tony. You could have ordered them outside to do the work you weren't feeling up to doing with them."

"And then listened to them mock me for it? No thanks." Tony took a breath, extremely relieved to find it no longer hurt to pull in air. "They already hate me."

"They don't hate you."

Tony raised an eyebrow at that—and then raised a hand to his head as pain flared through his temple.

"How bad's the headache?" Jimmy asked, softly, getting up to kneel in front of his patient. He raised his own hand and placed it against Tony's forehead. "You're not feverish. Any shaking? Chills?"

"No."

Jimmy shook his head. "Like you'd be able to tell with these wet clothes. Any muscle aches?"

"Aside from sleeping on Ducky's crappy couch?"

"Any chest pain?"

"Only when you punched me."

Jimmy went completely still, his eyes wide behind the round frames of his glasses. "Wait, Tony. Did I hurt you?" He reached out a hand and touched Tony's arm. "Chest percussions aren't supposed to be painful."

The genuine worry in Palmer's eyes had Tony feeling guilty—and some other emotion he couldn't quite place and frankly didn't spend much time trying to. "No, Gremlin. I was just kidding."

A nod was followed by a quick push on the gold frames. "This is probably why doctors have no sense of humor."

"Don't let Ducky hear you say that," Tony said, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

Jimmy cracked a smile. "Come on. Get up and get changed. And then you're coming with me for a chest x-ray—"

"I don't have time for—"

"Do you have time to lie around in a hospital, hooked up to IV antibiotics and having 'dates' with respiratory therapists?"

Tony eyed Jimmy's steely determination. "Is the therapist some hot chick named Fiona with a nice ass?"

"He's a 300-pound dude named Frank with wandering hands," Jimmy said, deadpan.

Tony shivered. "Fine. But I'm not sticking around while you develop the films."

"Yes, you will," Palmer stated. "We'll get something to eat while we wait."

The agent allowed Jimmy to haul him to his feet, and Tony was rather proud of himself that he didn't fall over—didn't even feel dizzy. He sighed and gave in. "Good thing Ziva's ordering dinner. I'll split with you whatever she ordered me." He looked down at the probie's shirt in his hand and reminded himself to thank McGee when he got back upstairs.

"They don't hate you, you know."

Tony looked up to find Jimmy staring at the shirt, too. "Well, they don't exactly like me," Tony said.

Jimmy gave him a slightly exasperated look. "You're their new boss, Tony. No one likes their new boss. Hell, I'd say you were doing something wrong if they liked you at this point."

Tony took that in as he moved into a stall to change out of his wet clothes. There was no sound of the outer door closing, and he smiled a little as he realized Jimmy was staying, making sure Tony didn't faceplant into a toilet or something.

"You know," he called, "it's still kinda weird hearing you say 'hell'."

There was a slight pause, and then Jimmy's voice carried back over the partition.

"So you'd probably be really freaked out if I told you to hurry the fuck up then, huh?"

Tony laughed. "Uh, yeah."

"Oops," Jimmy said. "But really, could you hurry the fuck up? I'm starving."


	8. Chapter 8

Ducky was already gone for the day, but Palmer fired up the x-ray machine with practiced ease.

Still, Tony teased, "You know what you're doing with that thing, right? I'm not gonna end up glowing in the dark, am I?"

Jimmy rolled his eyes as he loaded film into the machine. "Only if you ask real nice."

Tony smiled despite the fact that he still felt pretty miserable. He knew he should be protesting this more—he had a reputation to uphold, after all—but he also knew from the heaviness that had settled into his chest that this could be a serious infection. He hoped like hell it wasn't; he didn't know if he could stand to sit on the sidelines just because he was sick. Not only was it a sign of weakness, but he didn't know what would happen to his two-man team if he was forced to take time off.

But if the x-ray showed real trouble, Tony knew he would have to sit out any action in the field. He was team leader now, responsible for his people's lives and safety, and he had to be capable of protecting them should danger arise. It was a responsibility he did not take lightly.

"Come here," Palmer said, his gentle expression making Tony wonder how much of his worry had shown on his face.

Tony stood where Jimmy put him, eyeing the assistant warily. "You have one of those lead-skirt thingies that'll keep this thing from frying my little DiNozzo-makers?"

Jimmy raised an eyebrow at Tony's familiarity with the procedure. "You've had a lot of x-rays."

"About a zillion," Tony said, putting a hand to his chest. "Ever since the plague, Ducky makes me do this every time I cough." He saw the flash of pride in Palmer's eyes that he was following so well in the doctor's footsteps, and Tony was glad Jimmy got his message of thanks without him having to say it. And then he wondered why he didn't want to say the words. "So thanks, Jimmy. For making me do this."

Palmer blushed and ducked his head, securing the guard around Tony's waist and then moving across the room to stand behind the shielded partition. "Deep breath and hold it," he called. Catching Tony's wince, he said, "Deep as you can, Tony."

Tony did as he was told, coughing a little after the x-ray was taken. He handed the guard back to Palmer and watched the medical student studying his breathing. He was unnerved by the intensity of the concern behind the round glasses, and he said, sincerely, "You're gonna make a great doctor."

Palmer blushed again. "Thanks," he said, pulling the film from the machine. "This shouldn't take too long to develop."

Tony sat down on one of the autopsy tables with a little shiver that he tried to ignore. He was also feeling unnerved by how tired he was. It had been a long day, sure, but no longer than most. But he felt like he had run a marathon or two—uphill and through mud. He needed a distraction, so he joked, "How long 'til I get your bill?"

Palmer smiled. "No charge."

"I take it back then," Tony said, grinning despite his exhaustion. "You're gonna make a lousy doctor."

Jimmy rolled his eyes again. "I changed my mind. You don't have to stay and wait. You should go upstairs and eat. I'll be up in a bit."

"I don't mind waiting," Tony said, shaking his head. He didn't tell Jimmy it was partly because he could just sit down here, not having to put on a brave face, not having to think about the stalled case. More and more, he was feeling like he could just _be_ around Palmer, he realized as he stretched out on the shiny table.

He was about to tuck his arms under his head when Jimmy stuck a roll of paper towels there. "Get some rest, Tony," was all he said before going to quietly busy himself across the room.

Tony blinked awake a few minutes later to the unsettling feeling that someone was watching him.

Turns out someone was.

But Palmer turned quickly back to the file on Ducky's desk when he saw Tony start to sit up.

"Gotta tell ya, Jimbo," Tony said, stretching with a wince. "You watching me sleep is kinda creepy."

Jimmy shrugged. "It's medically relevant. I was watching your breathing."

Tony considered that as he coughed, peeling a paper towel off the roll and spitting into it, feeling more than a little grossed out by the thick mucus he was hacking up.

But Palmer just crossed the room, snagging the crumpled towel before Tony could launch it into the nearby biohazard bin. He glanced inside without trepidation, nodded, and then threw it away.

"That's kinda creepy, too," Tony said.

"Also medically relevant," Palmer said again. "Any trace of blood and I'd be dragging you to an ER."

Tony studied the assistant, seeing the defiant tilt of his chin and still thinking about all Palmer had done for him—from helping him clear his lungs to not being disgusted by his bodily fluids. That was a level of caring even his parents hadn't been able to manage. Tony suddenly wanted to thank him again. But Jimmy was looking at him expectantly, so Tony joked, "Love to see you try that."

"All it would take is a phone call," Jimmy said simply, moving closer as Tony started coughing again. He hovered at Tony's side, waiting through the hacking, and finally asking, "Want help?"

Tony shook his head, gagging as he brought up a wad of thick mucus but feeling better once it was out. He spoke as soon as he was able, thinking more about the towels in Palmer's hand than his own words. "Gibbs doesn't care about my lungs, Palmer."

Jimmy froze about halfway to the bin, his back to Tony, who tensed in time with his new friend.

"Blood?" Tony asked, knowing and hating that he sounded scared. _What kind of very special agent is frightened of phlegm? _he wondered, feeling rather disgusted with himself.

Palmer tossed the towels and turned back. "No," he said, pausing for a breath. "Tony—"

"Seriously, Palmer," Tony cut him off, wondering if he should be allowing himself to get this close to the assistant. Gibbs' name seemed to be coming up a lot between them—but Tony didn't want to talk about his absent mentor. Not with anyone. "He has his own problems now. Like how long to siesta and how many tequila shots to take before breakfast. These things are important."

He stopped, seeing that Palmer was simply waiting for him to quit rambling. Jimmy raised an eyebrow, not saying a word—but all Tony was hearing was Gibbs' voice, asking, "Done?"

Tony swallowed a "Yes, Boss" and just asked, tiredly, "What, Palmer?"

"I was here late one night," Jimmy said, leaning against the table opposite the one Tony was sitting on. "It was about a year ago, and I heard Dr. Mallard and Agent Gibbs talking. It was about a case so I just went about my cleaning, not really listening."

Tony nodded as Jimmy paused. The agent was painfully aware Kate had died about a year ago, and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear this. He hated that his memories of her were always strongest when he was at his weakest, hacking up crap from his lungs and wishing he could remember her teasing and smiling, rather than fighting tears at his bedside, thinking he was going to die on her—neither of them aware of the cruel joke the universe was about to play, making _him_ attend _her_ funeral less than a month later.

Besides, Tony knew Kate probably wouldn't want to be forever associated with phlegm.

"Then, mid-conversation about suspects and TODs and motives," Jimmy said, watching Tony carefully, "Gibbs interrupts Dr. Mallard and asks him about the symptoms of respiratory infections."

The agent knew where this was going, but still he said, "Probably about the case."

"Tony," Jimmy said, shaking his head. He smiled a little. "I'm a better eavesdropper than that. You wanna know what Agent Gibbs said when asked why he wanted to know?"

"Can I take a few years to think about it?" Tony joked, sliding off the table and turning away from Palmer's intense gaze.

" 'DiNozzo's too stubborn to tell me if he's in trouble,' is what he said." Jimmy paused. "He wanted to know what he needed to know to look after you, Tony."

Tony didn't know what to say to that. He didn't have a joke ready. He wasn't going to lash out at Jimmy, even though a big part of him really wanted to. And he sure as hell wasn't going to say exactly what he was thinking—he slammed on the mental brakes before that thought was even fully formed.

He turned around slowly. "You sure it was Gibbs?" Tony asked, knowing the attempted joke was lame.

Jimmy gave him an exasperated look. "Looked a lot like him," he said. "And Dr. Mallard kept calling him 'Jethro.' And the voice was spot-on, sounded just like Agent Gibbs. Do you suspect a doppelganger? A conspiracy theory?" There was no mocking in Jimmy's tone. Just mild annoyance that might have held a hint of sadness.

"Maybe," Tony said quietly, staring at the body drawers on the wall. He turned to Jimmy with sudden anger bubbling just below the surface of his calm exterior. "Because that doesn't sound at all like Gibbs to me."

"Really?" Jimmy challenged, picking up on the anger and stepping into Tony's space. "He was worried about you, knew how you'd react if he asked you directly, so he went around you to someone he knew would give him a straight answer so he could be in control of the situation. You're right, Tony. That doesn't sound at all like Gibbs."

Tony was silent for a long moment, feeling his anger draining away. Jimmy had moved out of his space, and Tony found himself staring at the wall of drawers again for a few more minutes before speaking.

"You really would make a damned good spy, Palminator," Tony finally said.

Jimmy gave him a quizzical look, not making the connection.

"You're really, really observant, Gremlin."

Palmer broke into a grin. "I'm also still really, really starving. Let's look at your film and go eat."

Tony nodded, following Jimmy to the lightbox and trying not to bounce in nervous anticipation. The agent had seen enough of these to know a really bad one when he saw one, but he also knew he didn't have the practiced eye of a doctor—or a medical student.

Palmer stuck the film under the clips and flipped on a light, cocking his head as he studied the image.

It wasn't the worst Tony had ever seen, but it wasn't the best, either. So he waited for Palmer's opinion, giving in and rocking from heel to toe in impatience while Jimmy deciphered his Rorschach lungs. Tony kept his mouth shut about how the blob in the left one looked vaguely like a bunny, and he set his mind to wandering, thinking about anything but what Palmer was about to say. One of those stray thoughts made him suddenly go completely still.

"You didn't mean Gibbs."

"Huh?" came a distracted reply. "When?"

"When you said it would only take a phone call to get me to an ER."

Jimmy nodded, still staring at the film. "Right. I meant Abby," he said, turning his intense gaze on Tony before smiling a little. "That girl can be pretty persuasive."

"And?" Tony asked, starting to bounce again as his eyes strayed over Palmer's shoulder to the slightly splotchy x-ray.

"And she could kill me without leaving a trace of forensic evidence."

"And?" Tony repeated, practically hopping even though he was still tired.

"Relax, Tony," Jimmy said, smiling and putting a hand on the agent's shoulder. "You have obvious signs of an infection but no pneumonia. I wouldn't even call it walking pneumonia."

Palmer began to talk about what was apparently his treatment plan, but Tony cut him off two words in.

"I'm not taking any time off," he said, eyeing the assistant and hoping like hell he would agree.

"That a statement or a question, TD?" Jimmy asked, fighting a grin as he repeated the agent's teasing words back at him.

Palmer expected more teasing back so he was surprised by Tony's serious expression and slightly downcast eyes.

"I've never called in sick working here, but…"

Palmer studied the agent, who was now fiddling with the cuff of his borrowed shirt. He nodded in understanding. "But you won't put your team at risk if you're not physically fit for duty."

Tony's eyes came up sharply, but he spoke quietly. "They're my responsibility now. If I can't protect them…"

Jimmy nodded again even though Tony wasn't looking at him, and he was about to say something about how lucky the team was to have someone like Tony looking out for them when the pressurized doors swished open and that team walked in. Jimmy didn't miss that Tony's hand shot out to turn off the lightbox revealing the evidence of his illness, but he also didn't say anything about it.

"There you are," McGee said, his hands full of carryout bags.

Tony eyed the numerous bags and raised an eyebrow. "You moving in, Probie?"

"Ziva ordered enough food for an army," McGee said, giving a slight _oomph_ as she elbowed him. He gave her an exasperated look and then nodded at Jimmy. "Come on, Palmer. We'll go grab Abby and find somewhere to eat."

"What's wrong with here?" Jimmy asked, grinning at the slightly horrified look on Tony's face. "We've got plenty of tables."

"You dissect people on these tables," Tony said.

"Well, yeah," Jimmy said, pushing his glasses up his nose and hiking his chin a little. "But I clean these tables very thoroughly, I'll have you know."

"I'm sure you do," Tony agreed, "but I'm still not eating somewhere you might've dropped a kidney."

"I haven't dropped an organ since high school biology," Jimmy said, slightly haughty. And then he grinned. "It was a frog's stomach. Those suckers bounce like little rubber balls, you know? I almost caught it on its way back up—"

"We'll go eat in Abby's lab," McGee said, turning back for the door and not waiting to see if anyone was following.

Tony sidled up beside him, giving his agent an appraising look. "How decisive of you, McGee. Way to take charge."

McGee's pleased smile turned a bit tentative as he glanced at his boss, but he just said, "I'm the team's senior field agent now. I should probably act like it."

Tony heard the question in that and it reminded him of the pride he had felt the first time Gibbs called him his senior agent. "You are," he said, watching McGee grin at the simple praise. "You're dressing like it, too, McGucci. Nice shirt."

"Thanks. I remembered I had a spare in my car," McGee said, looking down at his new designer shirt and feeling glad he had decided to put it on. Truthfully, the shirt had been sitting in his car since the day he bought it because he had been afraid Tony would take one look at it and make fun of him for trying too hard.

Tony smiled and Tim waited for the comment about the slight wrinkles in the brand-new shirt. But all Tony said was, "And thanks for letting me borrow this one. It would've sucked being cold and wet all night."

"You're welcome," McGee said sincerely as he walked into Abby's lab, greeted by some squealing singer. He was too busy trying to figure out if that singer was male or female to notice that Tony had stopped Ziva in the hall.

"Yes?" Ziva said, looking down at his hand on her arm.

"You okay?" he asked as soon as McGee and Palmer were out of earshot.

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing a bit in confusion. "I am fine. You are the one who is white as a sheet," she said, smiling a little at his grin, no doubt that she had gotten the idiom right. She was about to tell him she had had help with that when he spoke instead.

"I'm fine," he said, shrugging. "You're just awfully quiet, and I'm wondering if there's something wrong."

Her smile was a little crooked as she tried to decide whether she liked the idea of having an overtly caring boss—and whether Tony's concern was merely an act. And then she wondered when she had started thinking of Tony as her boss. She looked up at him, still feeling the gentle hand on her arm, and she saw genuine worry in his tired eyes.

"I am fine," she said, putting her hand over his and towing him closer to the lab. "I just could not get a word in with you and Jimmy and McGee yakking away like that." She stopped. "Wait, yakking? Yapping? Which is it?"

"Either. Though 'yakking' is also slang for puking," he said, putting a hand to his stomach. "Which is what I might do if we don't get in there and eat soon. Talk about something else that doesn't quite make sense… Why does an empty stomach tell the brain it wants to throw up? Doesn't the body know there's nothing to actually throw up?"

"Tony," Ziva said, stopping his rambling. She continued softly, "You should have told us you were not feeling well. McGee and I could have searched the yard while you took the house." She paused, looking up into his eyes. "You know, it is not always a bad thing when we tell you that you are not Gibbs. He was a very good investigator, yes; but he was not always such a good boss. He did not care to hear about our aches or our sniffles, but I think a team should care about its members. Perhaps it will be good for all of us if you choose your own path."

Tony wasn't sure what to say to that. But it didn't matter because Ziva seemed slightly uncomfortable with the sentiments, too, and she dragged him into the lab without a word.

They both stopped short at the tears streaming down Abby's face.

The Goth stood at the head of her lab table, a carton of something in her hand and a look of pure devastation in her expressive eyes. McGee and Palmer sat around the table with her, both frozen in their uncertainty.

"Crap," Ziva said, realizing her mistake right away. She crossed the room and took the container from Abby's trembling hand. "I am so sorry, Abby. I did not mean to order it."

"What is it?" McGee asked, sniffing warily.

"I don't know," Palmer said, again duplicating McGee's expression—this time a nose wrinkled in distaste. "But I think it had a face."

Tony caught a whiff of the offending order on his way to pull Abby into a much-needed hug and he understood, too, even before Ziva spoke.

"I must have just ordered on autopilot, Abby," the Israeli said, looking genuinely contrite. Ziva might not have been one to shed tears over takeout, but she was empathetic enough to know how much even simple reminders of lost loved ones could hurt. "I must have just added Gibbs' usual order in without thinking. I really am sorry."

Abby sniffed and lifted her head off Tony's shoulder. "It's okay. I know you didn't mean to. I just wasn't expecting…" She sighed and snuggled back in, smiling faintly when Ziva and McGee both patted her back at the same time. Even Palmer was looking at her with kindness and caring—until he turned his attention back to the abandoned carton at the end of the table.

"Um, can I just ask," Jimmy said, cocking his head and sniffing again, "what _is_ that stuff?"

Ziva grabbed a pair of chopsticks and advanced on the assistant, flicking a pointed look back at Abby's teary face. "I can think of six ways to kill you with these, Palmer," she threatened, brandishing the utensils like a weapon.

"And I can think of seven," Jimmy returned, doing a halfway decent job of not looking terrified. "So what's your point?"

Abby's bubble of laughter broke the tension in the room—feigned and otherwise—and she pried herself out of Tony's protective embrace, pushing a container of food into his suddenly empty hands with a pointed, worried look that said she had heard the congestion in his lungs. She picked up her own dinner and settled in to eat. "No one's really sure what it is, Jimmy," she said, stabbing thoughtfully at a piece of broccoli. "It's kind of a mystery."

"We know it only as dinner special S32," Tony said, pulling up Abby's rolling chair and dropping gratefully into it.

"Or C19," McGee chimed in, "if you're ordering from China Delight."

"A number 44," Ziva added, "at Hunan Garden."

They ate in silence for a bit, each member of the team chewing slowly as they processed their own private thoughts. But then Abby hopped up, the chains on her short black skirt giving a soft jingle as she grabbed the carton of mystery food and crossed the room with it, dropping it into the biohazard bin with a determined nod. She turned back to the group, wiping her palms across each other in two crisp movements. She smiled a small smile that grew wider as she took in the similar ones on her friends' faces.

"You probably shouldn't have done that," Palmer said. And then he yelped when an unnamed party kicked him under the table. He glared at Tony, the most likely culprit—unless McGee was second cousins with Stretch Armstrong—and then he turned back to Abby. "I simply meant you should have saved a tiny bit—"

"To run it through the mass spec," she finished in tandem with him. "Nice work, Palmer. You're hired."

"I thought you said you didn't want an assistant."

The team turned to find the director standing in the doorway, her teasing smile softening the blow of the Gibbs-esque perfectly timed entrance. Jenny's smile faded though, and she stepped farther into the room, studying Abby's mascara-streaked face. "Abby, what's wrong?"

The Goth cocked her head, not realizing at first that she still had the evidence of her earlier crying smeared all down her cheeks. "Oh," she said, shaking her head. "I'm okay now."

Jenny looked to Tony, who gave her a reassuring nod. "You want something to eat?" he asked, gesturing to the abundance of food spread across the table. "Ziva ordered enough soup to float the entire Fifth Fleet."

"No, thank you," Jenny said. "But I do have something for you."

Tony jumped up, dinner forgotten as he mentally berated himself for leaving the case unattended for so long. "I'm sorry, Director. I should have—"

"You're entitled to a dinner break," Jenny said, and then she smiled, a touch sadly. "Despite what Agent Gibbs might have told you in the past, you deserve to eat—even if the case isn't all wrapped up."

Tony's expression matched the director's. "He used that line on you, too, huh?"

Jenny grinned. "He once took away my chair and told me I didn't deserve to sit after I messed up back in…" Her smiled turned rueful. "Well, a while back. And the 'something' isn't related to your case. In fact," she said, looking around at the gathered group, "it can wait. Enjoy your dinner, all of you."

Tony walked her to the door, sensing she had more to say.

And she did.

But it wasn't what the agent was expecting.

"Nice work, Tony," Jenny said, giving him a pleased smile. "I knew there would be some rocky moments—especially with Abby—but I knew you could handle it. Keep up the good work."

Tony stood in the hall for a moment, long enough for the elevator to close and for him to wipe the stunned expression off his face. He gave himself an extra minute before turning back and heading into the room, unsurprised by the expectant looks that greeted him.

"She didn't tell me anything," he said, holding up his hands. "I'm not holding out on you, I promise."

"We know," McGee said simply, tossing a fortune cookie to his boss.

"I bet we are going to be getting a new agent," Ziva said, her eyes lighting up as she considered the possibilities.

"You think we'll get a probie?" McGee asked, sounding a bit hopeful.

"We already have a probie, Probie," Ziva teased.

"In name only," Tony said, drawing a grin from his agent. "Our little McGee's all grown up."

"You should probably stay used to the whole 'Probie' nickname though," Abby advised. "I mean, Mike Franks still calls Gibbs that when he visits."

Tony studied her for a moment, debating his words.

Abby caught his eye and rolled hers. "Say it, DiNozzo. I promise not to start sobbing again."

Tony studied her for another moment. And then he asked, "What do you think those two are doing right now?"

Abby grinned and they both said, "Drinking the hooch."

"Maybe it'll be Agent Lee," Palmer said, drawing looks from the entire group.

"Maybe what'll be Agent Lee?" McGee asked.

"Your new probie," Jimmy said. "I, uh, heard she wanted to do some field work."

"Lee from legal?" Ziva asked, incredulous. "She is as timid as a mouse. And what is she going to do—throw a legal dictionary at the bad guy?"

"Or a stapler," McGee added helpfully.

"Or bore him to death with lectures and big words," Tony supplied.

Jimmy looked at Tony questioningly. "You think she's boring?"

"I think she's," Tony glanced at Ziva and grinned, "mousy."

"Huh," Jimmy said, getting up to start clearing the table. "I think she's kinda hot."


	9. Chapter 9

After dinner, while McGee and Abby were knee-deep in some computery discussion and Ziva was taking out the trash—and the godawful smell of Hunan Garden's number 44 with it—Tony turned to Palmer, remembering the assistant's car was still in the downtown parking garage. "Take my car again, Jimmy, or I can send one of the agents from the pool with you to get yours, if you want."

Jimmy frowned, studying Tony's face for a moment before saying, "I have some studying to do. It'll probably take a few hours so you can just take me to get my car when I'm done." He smiled, a bit triumphantly.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Is this some Gremlin Bond super-spy sneaky way of getting me to leave tonight?"

"Yep," Jimmy replied, his chin lifting a little as he eyed the agent, daring him to protest.

"You worried I'm going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight?" Tony asked, slightly annoyed at the coddling, even though the thought of going home and curling up in a warm bed sounded rather spectacular. Tony wasn't sure he'd ever been coddled before. But he was pretty sure he didn't like it.

"No, Tony," Jimmy said, his exasperation evident in the rising volume of his voice. "I'm worried that the respiratory infection clogging your lungs is going to turn into pneumonia if you don't take care of yourself and get some rest."

Tony cringed as the entire team—including Ziva, who chose that exact moment to come strolling back into the lab—turned and stared at him.

"We're going to get Jimmy's car," Tony said curtly. "Call me if you get anything."

He didn't wait to see his team's reactions, turning and giving Palmer a fierce glare, stopping any words the assistant might have said. Tony didn't care that he was borrowing a page from Gibbs' book by using the silent, angry communication; it _was_ rather effective. Palmer followed him into the hall, opening his mouth to speak as soon as they were alone, but Tony cut him off with a sweep of his hand and a tight, "Don't."

Palmer followed without a word as they made their way to Tony's car, both getting in and shutting the doors at the same time. The much louder slam from Tony's side had Jimmy looking over at him with a frown.

"You really are mad at me," Palmer said, sounding more confused than anything.

Tony started the car but didn't put it in gear. He stared at the steering wheel for a moment before saying, "Jimmy, I appreciate you helping me out."

"You're welcome," Palmer said slowly, sensing there was more Tony wasn't saying. The agent still hadn't put the car in reverse yet, so Jimmy said, "And?"

Tony didn't speak.

"But?" Jimmy tried again.

That had Tony's mouth quirking upward, even though he tried to fight it. But then the memory of the looks his team had given him at Palmer's announcement of his illness erased the smile completely. "But my team doesn't need to know—"

"Oh, please," Jimmy interrupted, his voice climbing a bit with his exasperation. "They know, Tony. It doesn't take any medical training at all to see that you're sick. I've assisted in autopsies on corpses with more color than you've got right now."

"I'm fine," Tony shot back, shoving the car into reverse and pulling out of the parking space.

Jimmy gaped at him for a moment, remembering how hard Tony had been shaking earlier just trying to breathe through the coughing fit in the men's room. "If by 'fine' you mean hacking up a lung and nearly passing out on a bathroom floor, then yeah, you're fine. I agree. Completely. Wholeheartedly."

Tony glanced sideways with a tight smile. "Sarcasm. Noted." He turned back to the evening traffic. "But really, I'm fine."

Palmer drew a slow breath, and then he reached out and lightly poked a finger into Tony's side.

"Ow!" Tony exclaimed, jerking sideways in his seat with a grimace. "The hell was that?"

"Now I see why Gibbs used to smack you upside the head," Jimmy said matter-of-factly. "Words obviously don't work with you."

Tony's sidelong glance was puzzled this time. "Have you been drinking?"

Palmer wasn't amused. He sighed and said, "Your rib muscles are sore from coughing, Tony."

The silence between them was heavy and thick, and Palmer wondered if bringing up Gibbs again was the brightest of ideas. Tony had enough to deal with between investigating the case, being sick, and accommodating the fluctuating moods of his team. Dinner had been amiable and mostly relaxed after Abby's meltdown, but Jimmy had been paying enough attention to know that since Gibbs had left, there had been good moments and bad, the team's collective mood like a roller coaster set in motion by its leader's shoving them away.

"Specifically, that pain is coming from your serratus anterior muscles, which are accessory respiratory muscles that contract during prolonged bouts of—"

"Okay, Professor Palmer, you win," Tony said, cutting off Jimmy's nervous rambling. He breathed in carefully, feeling the exact strain Jimmy had just described. "I'm not fine," he admitted quietly, staring straight ahead at the road. "And you're right that everyone noticed."

Jimmy started to ask why that was such a bad thing when Tony raised a hand and cut him off again.

"But," he said, frowning hard at the assistant, "I really don't need a guy standing there in scrubs confirming for them that I feel like shit."

Palmer didn't say anything to that; he didn't even apologize—not because he bought into Gibbs' BS about it being a sign of weakness, but because he hadn't done anything wrong besides expressing his concern for a new friend. That Tony was offended, angered even, by that open show of caring told Jimmy more about the agent than ninety percent of the words they had exchanged in the past twenty-four hours.

It was a revelation Palmer wasn't sure he wanted.

They rode in silence for one long mile congested by the District's infamous traffic, and Jimmy felt more and more guilty as they inched along under dark clouds that threatened an imminent downpour. Tony seemed embarrassed by his admission, and that certainly wasn't Jimmy's goal—he had just wanted Tony to know that going home to rest when sick wasn't exactly the mortal sin it might have been under the old regime. Palmer wasn't sure his thoughts were entirely fair to Gibbs—he had definitely heard the concern in the agent's voice that night when he had asked about symptoms of infections—but he also agreed with Dr. Mallard that Gibbs had to know that he had left behind people who thought of him as more than just a boss.

Growing up with a somewhat distant father who worked long hours and sometimes traveled as a research ophthalmologist, Jimmy knew what it felt like to need a substitute to fill that paternal void. He considered himself incredibly lucky that his piano teacher had taken him under his wing and that the man had always been willing to extend the lessons to chat about girl troubles or bullies or whatever the latest issue in young Jimmy Palmer's life. Jimmy knew Tony's relationship with his father was strained, but he had no idea why the agent would choose someone like Gibbs to try to replace him.

It wasn't that Gibbs was a complete hard-ass incapable of showing affection; Jimmy had seen Gibbs smile at Tony's jokes and Ziva had just told him a few months ago about Gibbs teasing Tony about his girlfriend calling him "Honeybuns." But Gibbs was definitely not the warm and fuzzy type, and Jimmy had a hard time picturing him as the kind of father anyone would want.

But Gibbs _had been_ a father, Jimmy realized with a guilty start. Maybe the guy had a reason for shoving people away before they could get too close.

The ringing of Tony's phone—coupled with the first fat raindrops splashing against the windshield—jerked Palmer out of his thoughts, and he half-listened to the short conversation while watching people outside the car dashing for cover as the storm clouds let loose with their promised deluge. The sidewalks were nearly clear within a few minutes, except for a few hardy pedestrians and a young woman in a long flowing skirt who tilted her face to the sky and twirled right in the middle of an intersection—and almost got hit by a bus.

"I'll meet you there," Tony was saying. He almost hung up the phone but then he stopped. "McGee? If you get there before me… watch your backs, okay?"

Jimmy heard the hesitation and could easily read the trepidation on Tony's pale face, and he got another little jolt as he got another glimpse into the agent's new reality as team leader. Jimmy couldn't imagine what it was like to feel responsible for people's lives and safety while sending them into potentially _un_safe situations—especially if he couldn't be there with them.

"Metro got a hit on our BOLO," Tony said, frowning hard as he stared out into the downpour.

"Go meet your team," Palmer said simply.

Tony glanced at him. "I'm not booting you out in the rain. We're still a mile from the garage."

"So I'll go with you," Palmer said. "We can get my car later."

"Okay," Tony said after only a slight hesitation. He gave Jimmy a stern look. "But you stay in the car and you don't get out for anything, got it, Gremlin?"

"Got it. I saw what this sick freak did to Jansen," Palmer said with a little shudder. "And I happen to like the current arrangement of my face."

That got a small smile out of Tony, and Jimmy noticed that the agent visibly relaxed a little as soon as the car was speeding to meet his team.

"You nab the killer," Jimmy said, reaching into his bag for a textbook. "I'll stay in the car and start my organic chem paper."

"Good call, Palmer," Tony said. He glanced over at the complex diagrams in the open book and winced. "But I think your job's a little scarier than mine."

Jimmy followed his eyes, looking over the molecules and equations. "You might be right. Maybe I should sign up to be an agent," he said, looking back up at Tony. "How did you get into NCIS?"

Tony shrugged off the bittersweet memories of Kate asking him that very same question, and he grinned at Palmer.

"I smiled."


	10. Chapter 10

As promised, Palmer stayed in the car when they arrived at their destination. The Metro cops had seen a man fitting their suspect's description near the World War II Memorial on the National Mall, but those officers were gone by the time Tony pulled up on 17th Street NW between the oval of lighted pillars and the towering Washington Monument.

The rain was still coming down in sheets that waved like linens on a clothesline thanks to the fierce winds blowing outside the car. Lightning slashed at the dark night sky, ripping it open and making it bleed bright rivulets of light amid angry booms of thunder.

The Mall was completely deserted.

"Speaking of scary," Jimmy said softly, looking around the popular tourist spot and not finding a single person. "I've never seen it like this."

"Me neither," Tony said. His eyes scanned the tree-lined space for signs of either his team or their suspect, but his gaze kept straying to the middle of the eerie scene.

The Reflecting Pool looked like it was boiling.

Rain slammed down from the thunderous skies so hard that the surface was more witches' cauldron than calm mirror for the looming monument nearby. Thunder rumbled again overhead, the growling of a great beast in a mood as black as the starless sky.

Tony pulled his cell and was about to call McGee when he saw two figures near the northern arch of the war monument, heads bowed to the rain but unmistakably his agents.

There was another ominous rumble from the skies, and Tony turned to Palmer. "I mean it," he said firmly, unsure whether the sick twisting in his stomach was because of the surreal nature of the deserted Mall or something else. "You stay in the car, no matter what, Palmer."

Jimmy nodded, looking a bit apprehensive himself. But he stayed as Tony slid out of the low-slung classic car, parked closer to the southern arch near a stand of trees.

The agent was soaked within seconds, but he simply walked toward the ring of pillars, his hand hovering near his gun as some finely tuned instinct made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. His teammates weren't looking at him.

But someone was watching him.

He could feel it.

He turned back toward the street, eyes scanning the semi-darkness until he spotted a figure in the copse of trees he had just walked past. He drew his weapon and yelled, his firm voice rising above the wind and rain, "Federal agent! Freeze!"

The crack of gunfire split through the air like an imitation clap of thunder, and Tony heard the bullet whizz by, missing his head by mere inches. He dropped immediately to the ground and then wasted no timing in scrambling for cover, ending up behind the pillar engraved with the great state of Nevada, and he was glad the designers of the monument had chosen thick granite towers to represent the states and territories making up the U.S. at the time of the war.

Tony stopped thinking about architecture altogether as two more shots cracked across the surreal solitude of the Mall. He strained to hear something, anything to tell him that his agents were okay—and not the targets of those bullets—but all he could hear was the spraying of the fountains at the either end of the oval, their steady babbling nearly muted by the driving rain crashing into the pool and splatting against granite.

DiNozzo took a few slow breaths to calm his racing heart and he ignored the tickle in the back of throat that signaled an impending coughing fit. He tilted his face up to the sky, keeping low behind his stone shield, and he swallowed hard, telling his body that would have to do for now. He didn't have time for hacking up a lung—not when someone was shooting at him and the status of his agents was so uncertain.

Looking up into its raging madness, Tony processed somewhere in the back of his mind that it was one spectacular storm. A flash of lightning streaked sideways across the sky, a perfect pitchfork parallel to the Earth below. More flashes came in such quick succession, clustered so closely together that it lit the night sky, illuminating the dark thunderheads as clearly as if it were daytime—but only for a moment.

Then darkness reigned again as the clouds charged themselves for the next powerful volley.

Tony waited, crouching in his position and wishing like hell he wasn't so far from his team. It was killing him not knowing if those shots he had heard had found their marks and were now killing his agents.

He shook off ghostly visions of the pair bleeding out into the wet grass and decided he needed to move—now. He needed to get to his team, even if it meant breaking cover to do it. But he knew better than to go rushing out into the open, so he inched up slowly, sneaking a peek over the wall supporting the tall pillars—only to be rewarded with a bullet zinging by an inch from his face.

DiNozzo dropped back down, gripping the edge of the granite with his left hand to keep from toppling over in his haste to get back into cover. The next bullet slammed into the stone, sending shards flying. Tony barely felt the jagged edge rip across the back of his hand, but he knew from the sudden warmth of the blood flowing down his wrist that the cut was deep.

The next volley of gunfire came from his right, and the shots were so close together that Tony knew they had come from two weapons. He heaved a sigh of relief even though his hand had started to sting like hell. His team was okay—at least okay enough to be firing back at the dirtbag. He knew he should be firing, too, but the blood pouring from his wound needed his attention first.

There were no more shots—from either side—as Tony wound a handkerchief around his palm and tied it off with his teeth, pulling the hand up and resting it against his chest, above his heart. He wondered dizzily when he had started carrying the things, ultimately blaming his cold and refusing to admit it was probably because Gibbs always had a handkerchief in his pocket.

Like the one he had offered Tony to wipe the gore off his face the day Kate died. Tony would never admit—or understand why—he kept the stained cloth folded into a tiny square in the back of his sock drawer, a macabre memento of a day he would do anything to forget. If he ever allowed himself to think about it, he would probably realize that while he had lost Kate just as suddenly as he'd lost his mother, at least this time someone had stuck around to make sure he was okay.

"Probie!" he shouted into the wind-whipped rain, knowing McGee and Ziva had already given away their position with their gunfire. DiNozzo didn't care if he gave away his position—he would rather the shooter come after him anyway.

"What?"

The low voice from a few feet away made Tony jump, and he realized the two agents had been moving toward him, using the monument's stone features as cover.

"You two okay?" Tony asked, studying what he could see of them in the dim lighting of the fountains and recessed bulbs in the floor.

"We are fine," Ziva said, scooting closer to where Tony crouched, still keeping his hand elevated. "Are you all right?"

Tony swallowed another tickle in his throat, shoved away thoughts of Kate, considered the pain in his hand, and nearly sighed in ecstasy at the thought of falling into a warm, dry bed and sleeping for a few days.

"I'm fine," he said. "Either of you two hit him?"

"Tony, you're bleeding," McGee said, finally reaching his boss. He reached out a hand to touch the makeshift bandage on Tony's, but DiNozzo smacked it away.

"That is a lot of blood," Ziva agreed, trying to get closer, too.

"Stop worrying about me and start doing your damned jobs," Tony snapped, mostly furious with himself for being so careless as to catch a ricochet, or chunk of stone, or whatever. "We need to get this guy."

"How, DiNozzo?" McGee asked, watching the rain wash Tony's blood from the granite and shuddering at how close his boss had come to getting shot in the head only moments before. Tim shook off thoughts of Kate and said, "He has us pinned here."

"So we just wait for an armed suspect to get into better position to pick us off?" Tony shot back. "I don't think so."

"He's probably long gone," McGee said, sounding as if he really, really hoped that were true.

"Probably," Ziva said, though it wasn't clear whether she was agreeing, or wishing, or mocking. "Or he is waiting for us to break cover."

She stopped suddenly, holding up a hand and then grinning. "Hear that?"

She was up and vaulting the stone wall before either Tony or McGee could get a hand on her. DiNozzo pushed himself up, only to sway on his feet and be caught by a stern-faced McGee.

"You're hurt," McGee said, trying to pull Tony down again. "You stay here."

"Can it, Clara," Tony said, swallowing a gasp as he used his injured hand to hop over the wall. He ran across the wet grass, blinking rain out of his eyes as he chased the shadows of his agent and his suspect, his probie hot on his heels. Tony lost Ziva in the trees near where he had parked, and his heart leapt up into his throat as he heard a very female grunt and then a gunshot.

He and McGee stepped into the trees, both agents going stock-still as they found Ziva flat on her back, motionless, the suspect nowhere in sight.

_Oh please no not again I can't do this again._

Tony slammed the brakes on his panicked thoughts and dropped to his knees beside his agent—a woman whose life he was responsible for, whom he had failed to protect.

Again.

He reached out with his left hand, his right still grasping his gun, and he stopped breathing entirely as a drop of blood from his injured hand dropped squarely onto Ziva's forehead, re-creating Kate's gory death right in front of him. He even had lungs full of fluid to help make the memory that much more real.

The driving rain, crashing through the canopy of trees as though unhindered, washed the droplet away just as Ziva opened her eyes and drew a deep breath. She winced and then cursed in what Tony guessed was Hebrew. He wasn't entirely sure because he was too busy searching her body for a gunshot wound.

"Relax, Tony," she said, finding a small smile. "I just had the breeze knocked out of me."

Tony stayed frozen in place, his own breath trapped in his lungs as he heard Ziva's voice but couldn't stop seeing Kate's dead eyes staring up at him. He blinked a few times and wiped a hand across his face, smearing his own warm blood across his cheek.

"Uh, do you mean 'breath' or 'wind'?" McGee asked, still scanning for their suspect.

Tony shook himself, tried to even out his breathing, and forced his mind back into the present. It wasn't easy.

"Whichever," Ziva said, sitting up and giving Tony an odd look as he cupped her elbow in his wounded hand. "The beast landed on me when I tackled him. But I got him. He fell right over there." She pointed and tried to get up, but Tony's grip was firm despite his injury.

They watched McGee walk slowly through the trees. He stopped at the body, half-hidden behind a tree trunk, and he bent down, apparently checking a pulse. "Yeah, Ziva. I'd say you got him. He's dead."

"But he is not our killer," she said, standing and noting that Tony's hand stayed on her arm despite her attempts to shrug him off.

"Why not, Ziva?" Tony asked, unaware that he was holding onto Ziva like a lifeline, his exhausted brain still seeing Kate's corpse overlaying the Israeli's pretty features. But he could feel Ziva's pulse at her elbow and he desperately needed the reminder that his partner was still alive. That _this _partner was still alive.

"Because a man who just bought a hundred grand in fake bills would not smell like a trash bin," she said, looking over at McGee. "He is a hobo, yes?"

McGee nodded. "Looks it." He pulled out his phone and then frowned as he compared the mug shot with the dead man's face. "Or not. This is our guy," he said, looking at his teammates in confusion.

"It cannot be," Ziva said, jerking out of Tony's grasp with an annoyed look that turned instantly contrite when she realized she had hurt him. "Tony, I—"

"Where does a hobo get money to buy counterfeit bills?" Tony asked, ignoring the attempted apology—and the stinging pain in his hand.

"Maybe he's not really a hobo," McGee said, looking down at the body. "The mud on his clothes looks smeared—as if he'd been rolling in it."

"You think he was hiding?" Ziva asked, her eyes on Tony's bleeding hand. She winced as a drop of blood dripped from his fingertip and she wished, not for the first time in her life, that her temper was not so short. "Why not simply take the money and run?"

Tony held up his bloody hand and shook his head. "We'll answer the questions later," he said firmly. "Right now we have a scene to process."

McGee looked from the dripping hand to Tony's face, noting that while his boss had been pale before, his face was now absolutely bloodless. "Okay, Tony. Hey, you still have Palmer with you?"

Tony glanced toward his car and nodded. But he said, "We should wait for Ducky. You know how he gets when we start without him." He watched McGee flick a nervous look in the same direction, and he nodded. "But yeah, Probie, go get him. Make sure he's okay."

Ziva and McGee exchanged a look saying it wasn't Jimmy that they were worried about, but Tony didn't see it. He was too busy staring at the spot where Ziva had fallen, still seeing Kate's dead body.

McGee started walking out of the trees, and Ziva moved closer to Tony, again seeing the haunted look in his eyes but still not understanding it.

"Tony."

She watched him jump a little and then turn toward her, blinking as if surprised to see her.

"Are you sure you're okay, Ziva?" he asked, looking straight at her face even as his hands ran down her arms again.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," she said, eyes narrowing in concern as she carefully caught his wrists and pulled him—gently—to a nearby bench.

The rain had finally slowed to a soft drizzle, but the bench was still soaked as they sat on it. Ziva didn't care. She was already wet and Tony looked like he might fall over if the wind picked up again. She released his right hand and focused her attention on the bleeding left one, easing the makeshift bandage off to inspect the wound but immediately pressing it back down again when she realized how severe the bleeding was. She trapped his hand between her palms and pressed hard, feeling him flinch at the painful pressure.

She was about to apologize for hurting him when the cough he had been suppressing forced its way out, the ferocity of the fit evidence of its fury at having been ignored so long. Tony wrapped both arms around himself as he hacked and gagged, but Ziva captured the injured hand and held it up, worried more about the amount of blood soaking the bandage than her partner's fierce coughing. It was a close call.

But Tony recovered quickly, looking up just as McGee returned with Palmer at his side. "Got a present for you," Tony said, nodding at the body.

"Aw, you shouldn't have," Palmer said, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the trembling agent.

"I didn't," Tony replied, trying to pull his hand from Ziva's but finding her grip too firm to fight. He gave her a look. "Ziva did it."

She gave him a look right back, checked her watch, and then turned to Jimmy. "Wound occurred approximately seventeen minutes ago and is still bleeding heavily. Three-inch slice across the back of the left hand, likely either a ricochet or piece of granite shrapnel from the monument. He needs stitches."

Tony raised an eyebrow at her at about the same time Palmer did, but Tony spoke first. "Thank you, Dr. David."

She frowned at him, but her expression wasn't angry. "In Mossad, we are trained to take care of our own." She nodded at Jimmy. "Until more suitable help arrives."

Palmer grinned at that, moving closer and reaching to take Tony by the arm. "Come on. I'll drive you to the hospital."

Tony stayed planted on the bench, his eyes moving from his hand—still firmly caught between Ziva's small ones—to Jimmy's face. "You're just gonna take her word for it?" he grumbled.

"I don't want to remove the bandage unnecessarily," Palmer explained. "It'll pull out the clots."

"Gross," Tony said, standing and refusing to admit that he felt light-headed. "I don't need stitches."

"Yes you do."

Palmer and Ziva spoke at the same time. Tony rolled his eyes.

"Fine," Tony said, not wanting to waste any more time when they had more important things to worry about. "McGee—"

"We know how to watch a dead body until Ducky gets here," the probie said.

"Maybe," Tony conceded, disentangling from Ziva and replacing her hand with his over the wound. "But Ducky won't get here if no one calls him."

McGee gave him a sheepish look. "Good point, Boss," he said.

Tony grinned as he turned away, feeling Palmer hovering at his side. "I do love it when he calls me that."

"Hey, Tony," McGee called after them. His grin was slightly smug. "Clara Barton was a Civil War nurse. Not a World War II one."

Tony just gave him a wave, using all of his fingers when just one would have done.

The pair got back in the car, Palmer sliding behind the wheel and Tony not fighting him. But as soon as Jimmy turned the key, Tony said, "To the Navy Yard, James." He tried not to giggle at his joke, feeling more than a little light-headed now.

"You're going to a hospital," Palmer said firmly. He glanced at the sodden red handkerchief. "You really do need stitches."

"Something you happen to have a lot of experience with," Tony returned. "I've seen those Y-incisions when you're finished with 'em. You got mad skills. You're a regular Betsy Friggin' Ross."

Jimmy eyed the agent. "Betsy Ross made flags."

Tony sighed. "Sewing, Palmer. She sewed flags. Try to focus." He looked back at the road ahead. "And try not to get lost. You're going the wrong way. Navy Yard's that way." He jerked his thumb backward over his shoulder.

"And the hospital—containing the ER where you are going to get stitches—is this way," Jimmy said, pointing straight forward.

"Are you saying you can't handle a tiny little scratch, Future Dr. Palmer?" Tony challenged, annoyed with himself for leaving the scene without putting up more of a fight. He was team leader; he should have stayed.

Jimmy was quiet for a moment long enough to make Tony feel guilty about both his words and his earlier actions. But then Palmer just said, quietly, "Yes, I can stop the bleeding. Yes, I can stitch up the wound. I can even do it in a way that will minimize the scarring." He stopped, glancing over at his pale, silent passenger. "But I'm not a doctor yet, Tony, and I can't prescribe you anything for the pain."

Tony turned his face to the window, for once in his life at a complete loss for words. They rode in silence the rest of the way to the nearest hospital, and Tony didn't fight when Jimmy pulled up to the emergency entrance and told him to stay put.

Tony didn't fight when Jimmy opened the door and helped him to his feet, silently gripping the agent's arm as he fought through the dizziness.

Tony didn't fight when Jimmy kept a hand on him as they made their way slowly to the doors.

But Tony did stop, just outside those doors, and he turned to Jimmy with a crooked smile. "Thanks, Palmer," he said. "Sorry I'm such a pain in the ass."

Jimmy just shrugged. "I'm sure I'll have to deal with plenty of ornery patients when I'm a doctor," he replied. "We'll just consider this practice."


	11. Chapter 11

Jimmy Palmer considered himself a fairly brave person.

He knew there were people who would laugh themselves silly at that notion, but he didn't care. He knew—from an experience that made him proud and yet still terrified him—that when the chips were down in a life-or-death situation, he would find the courage to do what needed to be done. Because he had.

But sitting in his friend's car, hearing that gunshot and watching that friend drop to the rain-soaked ground—not knowing whether Tony was dead, hurt or just taking cover—well, that had scared the shit out of fairly brave person Jimmy Palmer.

But Jimmy had shoved all of that aside—all of the fear he had felt grab him with an unrelenting grip during the shootout—and he had simply gotten through it. He barely remembered talking with McGee and Ziva or walking with Tony back to the car. He had driven to the hospital on autopilot, glad for the banter that had given him something to focus on other than the fear he had felt in that split second after that first shot—the fear that he would be performing Tony's autopsy that night instead of forcing the ornery agent to go home and get some sleep as he had planned.

Jimmy forced aside fuzzy memories of Kate's autopsy and tried to focus on the world around him. He was sitting in the waiting room of the ER, having given in when Tony motioned for him to stay when the nurse had called his name earlier. Palmer figured it was safe to let Tony out of his sight because escape was impossible, considering the size of giant male nurse. He also figured it would be easier on Tony if the agent could receive the necessary treatment without having to put on a show, to pretend that he _wasn't_ hurt, tired and still sick.

So Jimmy waited.

And tried not to think.

It wasn't working, though, he realized a moment later upon looking down to find his hands trembling slightly. He wondered if Tony was feeling a similar shakiness, knowing just how close he had come to getting shot in the head earlier. Jimmy wondered if he should try to talk to Tony about it, maybe start by sharing his own harrowing experience in that suburban Washington convenience store. He knew his new friend well enough to be certain that asking outright if Tony was okay was a bad idea.

"You okay, Palmer?"

Jimmy looked up to find Tony staring down at him with a frown.

"I'm fine," Jimmy said, watching the agent pick at the brand-new bandage on his injured hand. "You?"

"Seventeen stitches and a new appreciation for your bedside manner," Tony said, smiling wryly.

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "They didn't offer you a lollipop?" he asked, standing up and stretching.

"What they 'offered' was an overstay night," Tony said, one-handed finger quotes included. "Come on. I need you to tell them my lungs are fine."

Jimmy lowered his arms out of the stretch and cocked his head, studying Tony and suddenly seeing him as a physician might. The guy was ghostly white, shaking lightly in the chill of the air-conditioned hospital thanks to his drippingly wet clothes, and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. In short, he looked about the same as when he'd been wheezing his way through the coughing fit in the men's room.

Jimmy suddenly questioned his doctoring skills.

And Tony's sanity.

And then his own as he nodded and gently shoved Tony into his vacated seat. "What's the doctor's name?"

"Tenley," Tony answered gratefully.

"Stay here," Jimmy said, feeling fairly confident Tony wouldn't run away. The agent looked half-asleep already. And Jimmy still had the keys to the Mustang in his pocket. Still, he added, "I mean it. You better be here when I get back."

Tony mumbled something and waved.

Palmer made quick work of speaking with the doctor, assuring the man that he was a medical student and wouldn't let the patient out of his sight for at least twenty-four hours—and would bring him back immediately if his breathing got any worse.

He returned to the waiting room to find Tony dozing in the uncomfortable plastic chair, and Jimmy lightly kicked his foot to wake him, wincing a little when Tony groaned himself awake, his face pure misery for a second before he pasted a smile on it.

"Good to go?" Tony asked.

But there was little question in it, and Palmer wondered how Tony had come to trust him so quickly. Tony didn't trust anyone. Well, perhaps he had trusted Gibbs, but look how well that had turned out.

"Yep."

"How'd you get him to change his mind?" Tony asked, getting slowly to his feet.

"I told him I had already taken a chest x-ray," Jimmy said, keeping his hands at his sides even though the doctor in him wanted to reach out and steady his decidedly unsteady patient. But Jimmy knew his friend wouldn't be comfortable accepting the help. "I don't think he believed me until I told him you have a spot in your left lung that looks vaguely like a bunny."

Tony grinned. "Can't make that stuff up," he said, watching Palmer watch him as he headed to the door.

"You forgetting something?" Palmer asked, grabbing Tony's arm and pointing him toward the hospital's pharmacy. "Come on. Before _I_ change _my_ mind and make you stay here."

* * *

><p>Tony lay awake in his blissfully warm, dry bed later that night, but he found himself unable to sleep despite the painkillers Jimmy had forced him to take. He rolled his eyes even now, just thinking about how Palmer had made him open his mouth, checking under his tongue like Tony was a mental patient.<p>

He smiled faintly at the snore he heard coming from the direction of his couch, thinking about how Jimmy had plopped down onto it earlier and refused to leave.

"In case you forgot, I still don't have a car and we both need to get to work in the morning," Jimmy had said, cocking his head and adopting a mock-sad expression. "I'm beginning to think I may never see ol' Bessie again."

Tony had caved, immensely grateful Palmer wasn't insisting he take any time off because of his minor injury—or his illness. He had a feeling Ducky would have made him stay at the hospital and Tony would have found himself being escorted out by security had he tried to sneak into work. (He decided to make Ziva handle all conversations with the ME—make her really earn that "Liaison Officer" title.) It was nice that Jimmy just seemed to understand Tony's aversion to coddling. But he had to admit—if only to himself—that it was also nice to know that if he ended up coughing his lungs out that night, unable to breathe through the pain and pressure, he had a medical student sleeping on his sofa.

He rolled over with a slight groan, resting his injured hand on the pillow beside his head and telling himself he was just not looking forward to his meeting with the director in the morning. He had called Jenny on his way home from the hospital to give her an update on the case, but she had cut him off and told him to get some rest and that they could talk in the morning.

Tony sighed and forced his eyes shut, wondering how much trouble he was in for being involved in a shootout at a national monument. Sure, he hadn't _started_ the shootout, but there was still a chunk missing from the great state of Nevada.

He fell asleep wondering what Gibbs would have said to Jenny in that meeting.

He woke up a few hours later to the sound of a shootout on his TV.

Tony sat up slowly, his foggy brain struggling to remember where he had picked up a date more interested in watching "The Bourne Identity" than being in his bed at four in the morning. He knew his giant TV with its surround-sound system was pretty amazing, but he also knew he had other, well, _assets_ that were just as fantastic.

And then he remembered it was not Monica from the gym or Naomi from down the hall that he was shacking up with.

It was Palmer from autopsy.

Tony hauled himself upright, pausing to sit on the side of the bed and wait for the dizziness to clear. He was exhausted and knew he could just throw a pillow over his head and ignore the faint sounds coming from the living room. But he also figured he knew the reason Jimmy was watching that particular movie instead of snoring away on his couch.

So Tony got up, relieved to find his legs steady underneath him as he made his way into the other room, purposely giving a little cough just before he crossed the threshold.

Jimmy jumped anyway, popping to his feet and staring at Tony with wide eyes. "Um, Tony, I'm so sorry," he stammered, gulping in a deep breath. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

Tony shrugged. "You didn't. I woke myself up," he said, studying the assistant's face and having no trouble finding evidence of Jimmy's inner strife, "when I rolled over on this." He held up his hand and put on his best pitifully pained expression.

Jimmy's frown turned thoughtful as he waved his patient forward, and Tony sat beside him, patiently letting Palmer look over the hand that barely even hurt.

Palmer replaced the dressing, taking care not to touch the wound or the clean bandages. "The stitches all look fine," he said, releasing Tony's wrist with a wince of sympathy. "It probably just hurt like hell."

"Thanks, Gremlin," Tony said, nodding and failing miserably at stifling a yawn.

Jimmy gave him a sheepish look. "I'll turn the TV down," he said quietly.

But Tony just grabbed the remote and nudged the volume up a notch. "Nah, this is the best part," he said, watching Matt Damon pull some rather impressive ninja moves on the screen. "And Franka Potente is a total fox. You ever seen 'Run Lola Run'?"

Jimmy shook his head in the negative and smiled a little at Tony's mock-shocked expression.

"Palmer, you don't know what you're missing," Tony said, settling deeper into the couch and propping his bare feet on his coffee table. "She had this bright, bright red hair—not like the little highlight thingies she has in this one. And she spent that entire movie running all over some German town, trying to get money together so she could save her dumbass boyfriend's dumb ass. And she looked damned good doing it. Man, she's hot."

Palmer looked up from his knotted hands to the screen and then to Tony. "I don't know, I think Julia Stiles might be hotter."

Tony made a rude noise and covered his face with his good hand. "I'm just going to pretend you didn't say that, Palmer. I'd hate to have to kick you out at four in the morning."

Jimmy smiled again, relaxing a little more as he was drawn into the conversation. "Maybe it's the accent that throws me off," he ventured, watching Tony wince as he cradled his hand against his chest. Jimmy pushed a pillow in his direction and gave Tony a stern look, smiling again when the agent obeyed and propped up his hand.

"Nope," Tony disagreed. "I love a woman with an accent."

A big grin spread across Jimmy's face but he never got the words out.

"Shut your piehole, Palmer," he said good-naturedly. "There's nothing going on between me and Ziva."

"Okay," Jimmy said lightly, sneaking a sideways glance at his friend. "But I heard you two put on quite a show when you were undercover together."

"Oh yeah," Tony said, deadpan, "I was so good at dinner even _I_ thought I was left-handed."

Jimmy laughed, feeling more of his tension draining away. "Oh come on," he said. "You spent the night in the same bed with her. What was it like sleeping next to Ziva?"

"I wouldn't know. She snored all night long." Tony stopped, giving Palmer a glare. "Don't even think about telling her I'm telling you any of this."

"Any of what?" Jimmy asked, his eyes lighting up mischievously. "Are you saying there's more to tell?"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Whoa, there, Gremlin. Are you interrogating me?"

"Depends," Jimmy replied, "on if you'll actually tell me anything. You know, there is the guy code to consider here."

"Yeah?" Tony said with a snort. "There's also the partner code to consider—especially when said partner was trained as a Mossad assassin. Sorry, Palminator, but she scares me more than you do."

Jimmy nodded with a slight grimace. "Yeah," he agreed. "She could probably kill you with a spork."

Tony laughed and then they lapsed into silence, watching the rest of the movie without conversation until the credits started to roll. Jimmy looked over and found Tony's eyes closed, and he wondered if he should wake him or just let him sleep on the comfortable couch.

"Need something?" Tony asked, his eyes still closed.

Jimmy once again found his mouth moving before he could stop the words. "Can I ask you something?"

Tony opened his eyes and turned his head without lifting it from the black leather cushion. "As long as it doesn't involve what Ziva looks like naked."

The half-smile quickly faded from Jimmy's face. "Does it bother you?" he blurted before he lost his nerve.

"Does what bother me?" Tony asked, even though he was quite sure he knew what was bothering his friend.

Palmer shook his head. "Someone was _shooting_ at you tonight," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. He took a deep breath and looked Tony in the eyes. "That guy could have shot you in the head and you don't seem at all freaked out by that."

Tony took a moment to consider his words, reminding himself that this was an ME's assistant he was talking to, not a probie. "Well, A, he didn't shoot me in the head," he said carefully, "and two, if I freaked out every time someone shot at me, I'd end up in the loony bin."

Jimmy was quiet, his thoughts obviously not in the present, and Tony tried again.

"I'm not saying you get used to it," he said, struggling to find the right words. "It's more like you get used to the _idea _of it. You just accept that it's a possibility and try not to worry about it."

"I…" Jimmy started, but then he stopped, flicking a grateful look at Tony when he stayed silent and let him gather his thoughts. "So it's taken you a while to get used to it? You weren't always this… calm about it?"

"I barely remember the first time I got shot at because I was so scared," Tony said honestly. "But I do remember my partner telling me it was only natural to be afraid." Tony laughed. "Like he said, bullet wounds hurt."

Jimmy didn't respond, but his frown was a little less tight.

"And a lot of it depends on the situation," Tony continued, unwilling to leave Palmer alone with his morbid thoughts just yet. He just hoped he wouldn't say the wrong thing. "I thought I was pretty well used to the idea of people trying to kill me by the time I started working here at NCIS. Right up until this lunatic got the drop on me in some filthy alley and put a gun to my head."

Palmer's eyes went wide, but he didn't interrupt.

"It was about a week after I started, and Gibbs put a bullet through the guy's head and made a crack about not being sure if he liked me yet—but wanting me to stick around long enough for him to find out either way." Tony winced at the memory. "And then he pulled out his best gunny and reamed me for letting the suspect get behind me."

"That wasn't very nice," Jimmy said, again wondering why Tony was always so eager to please a man who seemed incapable of pleasing.

"Maybe not," Tony said, shrugging. "But it was what I needed to hear. I was pretty shaken, and having an angry Gibbs screaming into my face was a good distraction. Not to mention I did screw up. But Gibbs was actually kind of nice to me the rest of the day, and he even let me go home before finishing my report. Of course, he said it was because he had enough trouble reading my writing when I wasn't shaking like a damned leaf, but he knew I was feeling pretty wrung out. Just as I was headed for the elevator, he told me to get a good night's sleep—because there was a chance we'd be doing it all over again tomorrow."

Jimmy took a slow breath. "Comforting," he said wryly.

"It kinda was," Tony said. "It was a reminder I was still alive _to_ come back at it the next day."

"Yeah," Jimmy said after a moment, thinking about his own near-death experience. "You're right."

Tony, skilled interrogator that he was, knew Palmer was holding something back that he really wanted to get out. "Your turn," he said. "What's the scariest situation you've ever been in?"

Jimmy opened his mouth, but Tony smiled and said, "And do not give me some line about dropping corpses."

Jimmy smiled but it melted away. "Aren't you tired?"

The clock glowed 5:21, and Tony nodded. "Yep. But I'm also curious. Spill, Palmer." He sensed the lingering hesitation and so pulled out the big guns. "I really want you to tell me."

"It was all my mother's fault," Jimmy said, huffing a sigh and stubbornly shutting his mouth again.

"Isn't it always?" Tony said.

The joke broke through the last of Palmer's barriers and he began speaking quietly, staring down at his hands.

"She forgot to buy milk. I went to the convenience store near our apartment building. Everything was fine until I started walking toward the register." Jimmy continued, hoping his short declarative sentences would erase the tinge of fear that still darkened his voice. "I watched this guy shoot the cashier just as two cops walk in, probably on a break or something. The bullet hit him high in the chest and he fell to the floor, just as the cops pulled their guns. I didn't even think about it. I just went around the counter and started putting pressure on the wound. It was right when I first started medical school and I felt kind of important. But the robber was yelling and the cops were yelling and then it got really quiet. I looked up…"

When Jimmy looked up from his clenched fists a minute later, he found Tony extending a beer bottle toward him. He took it with a nod of thanks and drained half of it in one long gulp.

"I looked up right into the barrel of the gun this crazy guy was pointing at me. He was telling me to get away from the cashier." Jimmy took another drink from the bottle while Tony wondered what the cops were doing at that point in the action. But he didn't ask. He just let Jimmy talk. "I refused. I knew it was possible he could have just shot me, but I also knew the cashier would die if I didn't stop the bleeding. I looked up at his face—it's really hard to look away from a gun pointed at you, you know?—and I said, 'Either shoot me or get the hell out of my way.' "

Tony smiled. "I knew I liked you for a reason, Palmer."

Jimmy's return grin was slightly shaky. "After the cops shot the crazy guy and the medics took the cashier away, I just stood there, wondering what to do next. The cop who took my statement told me it was the dumbest brave thing he'd ever seen."

"Got that right, Palmer," Tony said, his expression going stern. "You pull something like that on my team and I'll kick your ass from here to Sunday."

Jimmy looked up from the bottle, blinking slowly. "You would have let the guy bleed to death?"

Tony gave him a look. "Didn't say that. I bet you saved that guy's life."

Jimmy nodded. "He sent me a Christmas card last year." He bit his lip for moment before finishing off the beer. "What now?" he asked. "After all this sharing we just did?"

"Sleep," Tony said, standing with a yawn. "Then never speak of it again, per Man Code chapter ten, section B, line D." He looked back at Jimmy, who was rolling his eyes at him as he settled in to catch at least an hour's rest. "And then we get up and hope we won't be doing it all over again tomorrow."


	12. Chapter 12

Jimmy finally got his car back the next morning, and Tony even paid the frightfully high fee that had accumulated while they had been busy fighting colds and fighting crime.

Tony waved to the gremlin at the elevator and headed up to the director's office, wondering if she had picked up on how to yell during her partnership with Gibbs. Tony caught a glimpse of the white bandage on his hand and found himself for once slightly glad for such a visible injury. Sure, Shepard was the director of an armed federal agency, but Jenny was also a woman. Tony wondered if he should be disgusted with himself for even thinking about playing to that sympathy.

"Special Agent DiNozzo," Shepard said, not looking up from the file she seemed intensely interested in.

"Director," Tony replied, wincing internally and wishing their dirtbag had picked anywhere but the National Mall to start shooting.

_I'm so screwed_, he thought, his sharp eyes picking out the name Jeanne Benoit and some alluring smooth skin in a corner of a photo. He wondered if Ms. Benoit was hot—and/or a criminal—and he asked, "Case file?"

Jenny jumped as though startled and slapped the file closed, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Nothing for you to worry about," she said, her eyes widening as she finally looked up at him. "You look like hell, Tony."

She got up and came around her desk, stepping in close and reaching up to touch his face, her pretty green eyes studying his pallor.

With her soft hand on his cheek and her body near enough to touch, Tony suddenly was having trouble separating the director from the rather lovely woman who was clearly worried about him.

He wondered if Gibbs had ever had the same problem.

"I'm fine," he said, watching her drop her hand and move back with a wry smile on her face.

"You took over Gibbs' role as team leader," she said, perching on the edge of her desk, "but I'd rather you _not_ take on his less than desirable traits. Are you all right? Do you need to take some time off?"

"No, ma'am," he answered immediately, a little thrown off by the quick shifts in topics. He suspected that was the intention. "I really am fine."

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Seventeen stitches is not what I would call 'fine'."

He wondered where she had gotten her intel on that and then remembered how cozy she had seemed with Gibbs' neurologist not so long ago. Dr. Gelf… Gelfand? Tony shook off those memories and reminded himself not to underestimate his director; she had apparently learned more from Gibbs than how to yell.

"It's not my gun hand," Tony said, suddenly terrified she wouldn't take "I'm fine" at face value. He was seriously worried if his Humpty Dumpty team were split up, it might not get put back together again.

He could see her debating, and he decided to try again. "Director," he said firmly, looking her straight in the eyes. "I would never put my team at risk. If I need to take sick time, I'll tell you."

He could see that she was still not entirely convinced, but she did give him a nod.

"I appreciate that, Agent DiNozzo."

Tony waited, knowing their conversation wasn't over. He still had the mangled monument to Nevada to answer for, and he knew it. But the way Jenny was staring at him had him standing up a little straighter, and then he felt himself smiling a little and wishing he had done something with his hair that morning.

And then he realized the director was looking him up and down like a woman on the prowl in one of the District's many nightspots.

Tony was confused.

And maybe a little flattered. Maybe.

But mostly confused.

_Maybe she misses Gibbs? Well, misses _Jethro _anyway_, he thought, still feeling like he should be slouching against a bar rather than standing at attention in front of his agency's director. _But there's no way in hell that _I_ remind her of him. _

"Jenny?" he tried, using her first name but keeping his tone businesslike.

She looked up at his face and blinked. Twice. "I have a little side project for you," she said, still studying his face. "But it can wait until you're feeling better. I need you to be … sharp for this one."

Tony simply nodded at the cryptic comments and tried to tie them to the leering once-over Jenny had just given him. He couldn't. Not unless he was going undercover as a gigolo.

"Now," Jenny said, straightening up and losing the leer, "there is one more thing we need to discuss."

Tony cringed, and then he started talking. "I know it was poor judgment to take part in a shootout on the National Mall, Director. And I apologize. I know that monument means a lot to a lot of people and that someone is going to need to fix it. I can write a letter, or something, to the congressman in Nevada and personally apologize for roughing up the monument to his charming state." Tony slowed in his ramble, catching the beginnings of the smile on Jenny's face. "Or I could go apologize personally. If the SecNav isn't using his jet, I could just pop over to Las Vegas, make amends, maybe roll a few dice..." He stopped, cocked his head. "You don't care about the monument, do you?"

Jenny grinned. "Not one bit. It's not as if _you_ started shooting at the World War II Memorial. And I doubt you have anything against Nevada, as a state."

"No, ma'am," Tony replied, his smile fading. "So, uh, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"

Jenny's expression went slightly sour, too. "Your team is a man down."

Tony nodded, feeling resigned. "And you're going to shift a new leader over to fill Gibbs' role."

"Tony," she began, her eyes growing even more troubled. She suddenly had that look again, and Tony wanted to run away from her probing gaze—even though he usually liked it when women looked at him like that. "You're pretty confident, aren't you? In your personal life, I mean," she clarified.

"Usually," Tony said, wondering if this was just a strange, strange dream. He made a mental note to go find Palmer later and have the gremlin pinch him.

"Usually?" Jenny asked, arching an eyebrow and giving him a knowing look.

He grinned back at her and hoped she wouldn't see that he was forcing the expression slightly. "Well, redheads do tend to scare me a little. Not really sure why…"

Tony was surprised to see Jenny's eyes go sad.

"So why the hesitation?" she asked softly. "You are an extremely competent, extremely capable agent. You wouldn't have lasted this long with Gibbs if you weren't. And, I've seen you do what I, for a very long time, thought was impossible: You get the ornery man to smile. Was he so hard on you that he never told you how good you are?"

Tony felt a sudden stab of pain as a memory hit him hard. He smiled, wistfully. "Once, he did. It was a long time ago," he said, shoving aside more painful memories of the end of his Baltimore days. He tried to focus on the current conversation, struggling to figure out why Jenny was complimenting him. He couldn't. "Gibbs was hard on all of us because he wanted us to succeed. I think."

Jenny considered that and then gave a little shrug. "Well, I'm glad that you seem to be taking a more friendly approach to leadership. This job is stressful enough without a cranky boss breathing down your neck."

She moved back to her desk and slid the mystery file aside. The look she gave him was purely business when she lifted her eyes to his face, and Tony couldn't help wondering if her earlier appraisals were somehow related to that file.

"I'm thinking about assigning you a probationary agent," she said. "And I wanted to get your input on one particular candidate I have in mind."

"Sure," Tony said, feeling suddenly relieved. "Shoot."

Jenny smiled. "Have you met Michelle Lee?"

"Lee from Legal?" Tony asked, feeling like he'd had this conversation already.

"Yes," Jenny said. "She's a Harvard Law graduate, you know."

"And she wants to be a field agent?" Tony asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

"She said she was looking for a new challenge," Jenny said, lifting a shoulder. She took a breath as though to gather her thoughts, and then she said, "And your team could use someone…"

"Who is the antithesis of Gibbs," Tony finished for her, apparently to her chagrin.

Jenny sighed, but she was also fighting a smile. "Well, yes. McGee has the technology down. You're a very talented investigator—"

"And we've got Ziva as a bodyguard," Tony joked, thoroughly unnerved by Jenny's continued praise.

"I think adding a legal, analytic mind to the team would complement all of you," Jenny said.

Tony noticed she didn't comment on his joke and he said, "Ziva was justified in taking down the dirtbag."

Jenny looked surprised by that. "I would say so," she said, eyeing the bandage on Tony's hand.

Tony hesitated. "I do wish she had disabled him rather than go for the headshot," he said. "But I'm not about to second-guess her judgment."

"You don't think …"

"Hartz," Tony supplied.

"You don't think Hartz is your killer?"

"I know he was there," Tony said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He saw Jenny's pointed look at the chair behind him and he dropped gratefully into it. "His prints were on the bands holding the counterfeit cash. I'm thinking he was the buyer, but for all we know he could have been Jansen's partner. And neither of them is alive to tell us—or who or where the third man in the alley is."

"Or who killed Jansen," Jenny said, eyeing Tony and seeing his obvious tension. "That's not all you're worried about, though, is it?"

Tony's smile was wry—and a touch sad. "How long were you partners with Gibbs?"

"Plenty long," she said, giving him a toned-down glare. "Now spill."

"I want to say something to Ziva about the way she jumped up and ran after an armed suspect," Tony said, reluctantly. "It was reckless. And maybe she had good reason—those ninja senses of hers are rather… attuned."

Jenny was frowning at him, and Tony suddenly regretted bringing it up.

"Tony," she said, shaking her head slightly, "you don't have to have my permission to discipline your agents. Gibbs was right about one thing that night: It is your team now. If you think you need to speak with her, then do it. I worked with her for years, and I know she could use the reminder that she's not invincible."

Tony nodded, feeling rather foolish that he had brought it up. And he certainly didn't want to sound like he was ratting on Ziva.

Jenny once again seemed to read his mind, an uncanny reminder of Gibbs that he didn't really need. "How long have you been in law enforcement?"

"Plenty long," Tony said, smiling a little.

She rolled her eyes at him and once again he caught a hint of what he would have called flirtatiousness in any other woman. "I suppose I'll let that non-answer slide. How many of those years have you been a supervisor?"

Tony checked his watch, knowing where she was going with the questions. "About ten minutes, I think."

"Exactly," she said. "It's okay to need—or even just want—a little guidance now and then. Do you think I'm one hundred percent confident in all of my decisions?"

Tony eyed her. "You regretting making me team lead already?" he asked lightly. It was not a light question.

"Gibbs made you team lead," Jenny said, staring steadily back at him. "And even if I didn't trust myself in that decision, I'd trust him. He knows you. And I know you're going to be a great leader. You already are—your impromptu dinner seemed to have pulled Abby out of her most recent funk."

"I think it might take more than a few dinners to ease her pain," Tony said, rubbing a hand over his face, his heart aching for his grieving friend. Gibbs' sudden departure had been hard on all of them, but Tony knew the hole their leader had left was like a physical injury for Abby.

"Like we all don't know where those black roses keep coming from."

Tony smiled a little at that, giving her a shrug. "No idea what you're talking about." He let the smile grow to a mischievous grin. "Did you see Bert has a new collar?"

"I did," Jenny replied. "I wonder where that came from?"

"No idea," Tony said, his eyes landing on the file on the director's desk. "Back to business, though? I'm wondering if maybe we shouldn't throw Agent Lee right into the middle of an investigation? It's probably not the best idea to make her feel like she's playing catch-up, you know? Maybe let the team know we're getting a probie and then let her dive into our next case from the beginning?"

"Good thinking," Jenny said, a knowing glint in her eyes. "And that will give your agents—your team—a chance to get used to the idea before she arrives."

Tony heard the clarification and he winced. "Abby's going to hate her."

Jenny nodded slowly. "Yep," she agreed.

"Any advice?"

"Aside from keeping Abby away from anything Michelle might eat or drink?"

Tony assumed a mock-affronted expression. "Director! Our Mistress of the Dark would never _kill_ anyone."

Jenny laughed. "No, but she's a forensic scientist. I'm sure she could do much, much worse."

Tony stood, holding his hand up as if to give the Boy Scout pledge. "I, very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, do hereby promise to do my best to make sure Agent Lee doesn't end up bald." He winced again. "But, really, I can't make any promises."

Jenny rolled her eyes at him and shooed him toward the door. "I'm sure Michelle will appreciate that."

Tony closed the door behind him, wondering if he was up to the challenge of training a brand-spanking-new probie. Especially Lee from Legal.

_Oh hell, _Tony thought, smiling at Cynthia as he left the office. _Wait 'til I tell Palmer. _


	13. Chapter 13

Tony used the opportunity of his return to the squad room to practice sneaking up on his team. He got within three feet of McGee—who was knee-deep in a review of the latest X-Men movie—when he was spotted.

By Ziva.

Tony felt a pang as he imagined Gibbs sweeping in and calling McGee "Elf Lord." But Tony ignored the sharp stab of emotion, and he kept his jibe about Tim's somewhat nerdy choice of films to himself. Tony didn't think Gibbs' often cutting humor was a good thing to emulate—not now, at least, when they were all struggling to process their leader's … retirement.

"Unless a mutant killed our sailor, Probie, maybe we should leave the movie reviews for later?"

He saw McGee start guiltily—and also caught Ziva's rolled eyes. Tony gave a smile as he leaned against the partition beside the probie's desk. "Great special effects. Rebecca Romijn is incredibly hot—even as a mutant." He kept the smile firmly in place as Ziva turned back to her computer screen with a huff of displeasure. He asked Tim, "Who'd you see it with?"

McGee looked a little surprised by the question, but he answered, "Anna from the apartment next to mine."

"She hot?" Tony asked, still ignoring Ziva's impatient shuffling of papers.

McGee nodded, but then he looked away. "Says she has a boyfriend."

Tony sensed hesitation. "But?"

Tim smiled. "But I've never seen him and she spends most nights at home alone. Usually watching movies, from what I could hear through the thin walls," he said.

Tony considered that. "Chick flicks?" he asked.

McGee nodded.

"I bet she just had a messy breakup and doesn't want to get involved again so soon," Tony said confidently. "Keep after her, McLover. She'll come around."

Tim smiled at that, but he didn't seem entirely convinced. Tony added to his mental to-do list a note to come up with some ways to give the probie some more confidence. Perhaps some more clubbing was in order.

"You're a super smart, armed federal agent with good taste in action flicks, McGee," Tony said. "Keep after her. That's an order."

Tony matched McGee's grin for a moment before wiping all expression off his face and turning to his other agent. "Officer David," he barked, walking past her desk toward the elevator. "With me."

Both agents' eyes snapped to their boss's face at the abrupt change in his demeanor, but McGee just looked back to his monitor with relief.

Ziva stood, but she stayed planted behind her desk, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Seriously, Tony? I hardly need advice on picking up chicks from you."

Tony bit down on a joke about that not being her first intimation of lesbianism. He remained all business—including his posture, as he pulled himself up to his full height. "With me," he repeated firmly, bypassing the elevator and heading down the hall to a conference room.

He did not look back to see if Ziva was following.

Tony simply sat at the head of the long table and waited, feeling less and less confident himself as the seconds ticked by. _The hell do I do if she refuses to talk to me?_ he wondered, knowing he should be using the precious seconds to figure out exactly what he wanted to say to her if she did grace him with her presence.

He was just about to stand when his agent came into the room, her pretty face completely closed off and steely. But Tony didn't think for a second that she had paused to prepare herself for a reaming; no, he knew she had been preparing _him_, trying to rattle her interrogator in any small way she could to gain the upper hand.

Tony considered himself relatively unrattled.

"Officer David," he said, nearly rolling his eyes at himself at the second use of such formality in mere minutes. "Have a seat," he said, but he did not soften his tone.

Ziva sat. She did not speak, but she did look her supervisor directly in the eyes, waiting.

Tony swallowed a sigh. He didn't want this. He didn't want the intensity in her stare, didn't want this tension among his team.

So he reached out and pinched her arm.

She raised an eyebrow. "Ow?"

"Just checking," Tony said, letting a hint of a smile cross his face. He saw a faint sparkle in Ziva's eyes, and he pushed aside the memories of the multiple times he'd had this conversation with Gibbs, only in reverse. But Tony was no Gibbs, and Ziva was no Tony. It was time for different tactics. "You do feel pain, right?"

"Yes," she replied, rubbing her arm lightly even though they both knew he hadn't really hurt her. Understanding flooded her eyes and she nodded, looking almost contrite.

Tony almost bought it.

"I should not have run off after Hartz like that," she said, her gaze still on Tony's face.

He slipped and let a tiny hint of victory show.

Ziva pounced. "Without ordering McGee to stay with you," she added, smiling a predator's smile for only a fraction of a second. She continued, her tone businesslike as she glanced down at his bandaged hand. "You were obviously injured and I should have made sure someone was there to protect you."

Tony wanted to scream. So he smiled. And fought the urge to tug his sleeve down over the evidence of his injury.

"That's very kind of you, Ziva," he said, emphasizing her first name and forcing himself to unclench his jaw. "But I'm more concerned about you taking off after an armed suspect who would gladly have put a bullet in you."

"Well, technically he was armed," she said, patiently, as if talking to a small child, "but his weapon jammed so I took advantage of the opportunity and took him down."

He stared at her.

"I heard the clicking of the disabled weapon," she said in answer to his unspoken question.

He raised an eyebrow. "You heard the clicking of a jammed gun over the wind and rain and those damned annoying fountains?"

"Yes," she replied simply.

Tony gave her a look that demanded an explanation.

"In Mossad," Ziva said, again impatient, "we are trained to block out useless sensory information. And to be perfectly honest, I do not understand why you are so upset with me. In Mossad, I would be getting a pat on the back—not a lecture."

Tony looked around the conference room, exaggerating his movements as he peered out of the large windows. "Huh," he said, using his injured hand to scratch his head. "I would have thought there would be more sand in Tel Aviv."

Ziva surprised him by flashing a genuine smile. A momentary smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I know this is not Mossad," she conceded. She sat up a little straighter. "But I got the suspect."

"Actually, Ziva, you killed the suspect," Tony said, leaning slightly forward.

"You would rather I let him get away?" Ziva asked. "I was on the ground, Tony. I did what I thought I had to do."

Images of Ziva lying there nearly motionless assaulted Tony's mind, but he shoved them away—and didn't even let images of Kate spring up on him. He softened. "I wasn't there, Ziva, so I'm not second-guessing you. I'm simply saying I want you to think a little more before you act. You're an investigator now, here at NCIS—not a one-woman assassination squad." He looked her dead in the eyes. "And you have people here who care about you."

That finally seemed to shake the steely-eyed glare, and Ziva blinked quickly and looked away. The fleeting flash of emotion took Tony by surprise as he realized she might rather have him screaming at her than telling her she was cared for.

Tony continued, "You deemed Hartz a danger and you took him down. I have no problem with that. But if you had waited for backup, maybe we could have taken him down without killing our only lead."

Ziva pulled in a slow breath, her brown eyes returning to Tony's. "I see your point," she said calmly. "I will do better next time."

Tony nodded and stood. "Thank you, Ziva."

She smiled, but then turned serious as she stopped at the closed door, leaning back against it and resting her hand on the knob. Tony stopped about a foot away, looking slightly down at her.

"How is your hand?" she asked, her tone sincere.

And Tony gave her an honest answer. "Hurts." He shrugged. "It'll get better." At least, it was a partial honest answer. He didn't feel the need to mention that his lungs still burned with every breath and he had swallowed enough coughs to choke an elephant during their short talk.

She didn't move or speak, and Tony had no idea what she was thinking. He was thinking about how nice sleeping would be.

So he grinned and asked, "You wanna unbutton some buttons? Ruffle our hair?" He wagged his eyebrows at her. "Start some rumors?"

"Those rumors have already been started, Tony," she finally said, opening the door and following her boss into the hall. "And I have this sneaky suspicion that you are the one who started them."

"Sneaking," Tony corrected absently, turning and giving her a grin. "And I always thought it was you."

"Me?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. She ran appraising eyes over him long enough to make him almost uncomfortable.

Almost.

"McGee?" he ventured.

Ziva considered that. "Maybe."

Tony gave Tim a light smack on the back of the head as they walked back into the squad room.

"What was that for?" McGee asked, rubbing the back of his head.

"Thinking naughty thoughts, McGutterbrain," Tony answered. "That writing you do wouldn't happen to be porn, would it?" He realized a second too late the subtitle of McGee's manuscript—_The Continuing Adventures of L.J. Tibbs_—and he winced right along with the probie at the sore subject. Tony didn't apologize out loud; he hoped the contrite look he shot at Tim was understood.

McGee nodded. "While you two were … chatting," he said carefully, "I was working. Searching, actually."

"Yeah?" Tony asked, moving to stand behind the probie and peer at his screen. He reached out and grabbed the back of the chair as lightheadedness suddenly threatened to topple him. "Whatcha got, McGoogle?" he asked, hoping he sounded at least relatively normal.

"I was running the prints we took from the cars in Hartz's garage," McGee said, seemingly unaware of Tony's death grip on his chair, "when this guy popped up. Nicholas Monroe Halsey III."

Tony cocked his head at the mug shot of the clean-shaven, blond young man. "He reminds me of my boarding school classmates," he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"He looks like he is barely out of school," Ziva commented.

Tony ignored the intense gaze he could feel coming from her. He had no idea if she was still in fight mode from their talk, or if she had noticed his gentle swaying behind the probie, or if she was reacting to his rare comment on his childhood. None of the options was particularly good, so ignoring them seemed the best policy.

"He's twenty-one," McGee said, "but he has a nice long rap sheet—including your usual rich-kid issues, drunken driving, disorderly conduct, drug charges. And this."

Tony followed McGee's finger on the screen. "A charge for passing counterfeit bills. Nice catch, McGee! Let's go pick him up."

McGee popped to his feet, still grinning at the praise from the boss, but his smile dropped off his face when he turned and came face to face with Tony. "Here, sit," Tim said quickly, grabbing Tony by the elbow and steering his pale-faced partner into his vacated chair. He ignored Tony's weak attempts to shrug him off and asked, "What's wrong, Tony? Are you all right?"

"Fine," Tony said, his fingers at his temple as he fought the dizziness and tried to force air into his damaged lungs. He tried to stand but found Ziva suddenly beside him, her small hand pressing firmly on his shoulder. "What is this? A group hug? I'm fine."

The two junior agents simply stood their ground, their expressions complicated mixtures of exasperation and concern.

"Abby will be very pissed we're group hugging without her," Tony tried again. But he knew he sounded like shit, and he knew he felt like shit and had no business being out in the field. Still, it pissed him off when Ziva beat him to the punch.

"We will go pick up Halsey," she said firmly.

"And you'll go see Ducky," McGee added, only slightly less firmly.

Tony leaned back in the chair to look up at him. "One good catch and now you're giving me orders? I don't think so, Probie."

McGee reached forward to grab his desk phone, but Tony was faster, shoving it off the desk, cradle and all.

"Oops," he said, managing an innocent smile.

"Mature," McGee shot back, rolling his eyes and moving to Tony's desk to use his phone to call Ducky for reinforcements.

Ziva's hand tightened on Tony's shoulder and she leaned down to speak directly into his ear. "Did we not just have a talk about being reckless?" she breathed, pulling back and giving his injured hand a pointed look.

Tony glared. _Of course you would shoot me with ammo that _I_ gave you. _ "That is low, David," he grumbled, waving at McGee to put down the phone. "Fine. You two go pick up Halsey. I'll stay here and … do other stuff."

"Yes, I'll tell him," McGee said into the phone. He hung it up and gave Tony a smug smile. "Palmer needs to see you. Guess you'll be headed downstairs after all."

Tony pulled a face and shooed them off toward the elevator, waiting until the doors were closed to attempt to stand.

He was proud of himself that he didn't fall over.

But his stomach was roiling with nausea and his chest burned with every pained inhalation. There was a sudden coppery taste at the back of his tongue, and the reminder—whether real or just remembered—of his time spent gasping under blue lights had him moving toward the elevator.

Suddenly, a trip to autopsy didn't sound like such a bad idea.


	14. Chapter 14

Jimmy was just finishing brewing some tea when he heard the doors to autopsy swoosh open. He took one look at Tony's bone-white face and about dropped the mug.

"I'm glad I said no to a temporary replacement ME for the day," Palmer said, immediately grabbing the agent by the arm and pushing him into Dr. Mallard's desk chair.

Tony simply raised an eyebrow, tiredly.

"Because he or she would probably take one look at you and start cutting," Jimmy explained. He glanced down at the mug and shoved it into Tony's trembling hands. "Drink. You look like walking death, Tony."

Tony eyed the steaming mug with disinterest—until he turned it in his hands and saw the logo on the side. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you, Gremlin?"

Jimmy watched him pause to draw in a breath and end up coughing so hard he had to put the mug down. Tony swiped some tissues from the box on the desk and gagged into them, squeezing his eyes shut out of either pain or fear of what he might be hacking up.

_Or both_, Jimmy thought, watching and waiting even though he wanted to help his new friend. But Jimmy knew they were in the midst of a battle of wills, and caving now would likely lose him the war. Winning, of course, might lose him a friend, but Palmer figured Tony needed a swift kick in the ass more than he needed a friend right now.

Once the fit was over, Tony tossed the tissues without bothering to check for blood, and he looked up to find Jimmy staring at him with stern eyes behind round frames.

"Where did you get an American Pie coffee mug?" Tony asked, as if it were perfectly normal to have to pause conversations for phlegm removal.

Jimmy answered immediately, but his tone was flat with disapproval. "Door prize at a charity event."

Tony nodded, wrapping his hands around the mug as if trying to draw warmth into chilled fingers. He didn't drink, and it made Jimmy wonder if it was because he wasn't sure he could keep it down.

"Which—"

"Toys for Tots," Jimmy interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So why—"

"Prizes were donated by local businesses," Jimmy said, looking down at Tony with narrowed eyes.

"And where—"

"Home with his mother again."

They stared at each other.

Finally, Jimmy started to waver. "Or The Globe & Laurel Restaurant, depending on which question you were going to ask," he said, naming a popular Marine hangout in Stafford, Virginia, near the base at Quantico. "The owners are very supportive and offered the space for the event for free last year right before Christmas. And Dr. Mallard is home because his mother's regular nurse is unavailable again, and Mrs. Mallard accused the latest replacement of being a Persian spy."

Jimmy could feel Tony studying him as he rambled his way through the explanations with exasperation in his tone.

But all Tony said was, "Persian?"

Jimmy cracked a smile. "It's even stranger since Dr. Mallard said the woman was clearly Chinese."

Tony grinned.

But Palmer's smile faded. "You didn't check the tissues for blood because you could taste it."

The blunt statement had Tony blinking in surprise for several long seconds, but then he just shook his head and sipped carefully at the tea. "I already sent McGee and Ziva to pick up our possible suspect," he said quietly, staring at the floor. "I don't need a lecture."

"Well I need an answer," Palmer said firmly. He felt his confidence dip again as anger flashed through DiNozzo's eyes, but Jimmy just lifted his chin and waited.

"Then maybe you should ask a question," Tony returned, the edge in voice both unfamiliar and unsettling to the mild-mannered assistant.

But Jimmy simply complied, forcing his tone much calmer than he felt. "Have you been coughing up blood?"

"No."

It was a very convincing "no"—but Jimmy knew Tony was extremely good at his job, especially at undercover work. Jimmy also knew he could check the trash and wave the bloody tissues in Tony's face. But he also realized he had been wrong in his earlier assessment: A friend was exactly what Tony needed right then. So he decided to leave the swift kick in the ass to Dr. Mallard, should the good doctor deem one medically necessary when he returned the next day.

But Jimmy knew being friends sometimes meant asking hard questions. "Would you tell me if you were?"

Because he was expecting a simple "yes" or "no" response—and a possible lie—it took Palmer a moment to recognize the truth in Tony's quiet answer.

"Depends."

So Jimmy just stood there, thinking. Finally, he stepped closer and waited until Tony was looking up at him. "Okay," Palmer said, knowing that pushing the issue would only push Tony further away. He knew he had already gained some small fraction of the stubborn agent's trust—much more than Jimmy ever would have thought, especially considering his title as medical student. "Thank you for the honest answer."

The quiet, sincere words put a thoughtful expression on Tony's face, but Jimmy mostly ignored the agent as he poured himself some tea. He felt slightly ridiculous using two fingers to hold Dr. Mallard's dainty little china cup, but he simply sat in the chair beside the desk and sipped, hoping Tony would fill the silence as he often did. Jimmy figured it was like dealing with the wounded animals at the clinic he had spent some time at: You had to coax them closer ever so slowly, or risk losing them forever.

Or risk getting clawed in the face by an enraged Mr. Whiskers.

Jimmy shuddered, raising a hand to his cheek and feeling extremely grateful that little incident hadn't left permanent scars.

"Did you need something, Jimmy," Tony asked, his tone blank, "or were you just getting me down here to check on me?"

Jimmy smiled sheepishly. "Both," he answered honestly. "Jansen's brother called. He wants to see the body."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "We already have an ID."

"I know," Palmer said, frowning. "He was kind of insistent."

"Let me guess," Tony said, swallowing the cooling tea with a slight wince. "He can't believe his brother is dead and needs to see the body."

"Yep. I guess I can understand that. I mean, it's probably why they have viewings and wakes and all that."

Both looked around—as if for confirmation from Ducky in the form of a long-winded explanation of death rituals in the western hemisphere—and both remembered at about the same time that the doctor was absent.

They smiled.

Tony yawned.

"It's Friday afternoon," Jimmy said, glancing at the clock. "And traffic is probably already getting bad. I bet McGee and Ziva won't be back for a while."

"Are you propositioning me, Palmer?"

"What?" Jimmy spluttered, his eyes going wide. He grinned. "Well, kind of, actually. But I was more thinking you could go lie down in Dr. Mallard's office. Alone," he added quickly, turning bright red when Tony wiggled his eyebrows at him.

"This is an armed federal agency," Tony said, standing slowly and setting the mug on the desk, "not a daycare. There is no naptime at NCIS."

Jimmy scoffed. "I have seen each and every member of Team Gibbs asleep in this building at one time or another," he said, flicking a pointed look at the far autopsy table. "Including Gibbs."

Tony's sad smile made Jimmy instantly regret bringing up the AWOL leader and he silently cursed his runaway words. "There's nothing wrong with grabbing a nap when you can—whether you're two, thirty-two, or ninety-two. Medical school has taught me that much, at least."

Tony sighed, his hand moving to his chest as a cough exploded from lips pressed tightly together. Palmer grabbed some tissues and held them out, watching Tony's face go red as he fought the natural urge to cough.

"Just cough, Tony," Jimmy said, giving a small sigh himself as he turned away. "I won't even check for blood."

The hacking and gagging went on long enough for Jimmy to sneak a quick look at the agent while pretending to straighten an already perfectly organized drawer of equipment. When it finally ended, Jimmy faced Tony and asked, "Will you let me take another chest x-ray?"

"No."

Palmer frowned. But he just nodded and tried to keep his eyes off the wad of tissues in Tony's shaking hands, thinking again about his travails with Mr. Whiskers. Jimmy wondered which was worse: half-feral felines with attitude problems or ornery armed federal agents with lung problems. He figured it was probably a draw.

"Hey."

Jimmy watched Tony turn from the trash bin with an embarrassed look on his pale face.

"No blood," Tony said, holding up the tissues for a moment before dropping them into the bin. "Is Jansen's brother coming today?"

Jimmy nodded, feeling like something important had shifted in their relationship. "He should be here in a half-hour."

Tony headed for Dr. Mallard's office, but his eyes stayed on the assistant as he made his way across the large room. "Wake me when he gets here?"

"Why?" Jimmy asked, wondering if Tony didn't trust him to do a simple ID with a family member.

"Because if McGee and Ziva haven't checked in by then, I'll need to call them and … ask them what's taking so long," Tony finished.

Palmer figured the wince had more to do with Tony's nearly admitting that he worried about his team than any physical pain. "Sure thing, Tony," Jimmy said with a smile as he shooed Tony into the darkened office.

But he had no intention of keeping that promise.

He could handle the ID.

And he could certainly handle making a quick phone call should the agents not return promptly.

Jimmy knew Tony would probably be pissed when he woke up a few hours later. But at least he would be well-rested and pissed.

Palmer smiled as he dumped out the contents of his American Pie mug, laughing silently at himself as he pictured himself drugging the stubborn agent to make him get some sleep. He heard snoring coming from the office and was glad there was no need for espionage.

This time, anyway.


	15. Chapter 15

Jimmy's plan was foiled by a coughing fit that woke Tony about forty-five minutes later.

Tony glanced at his watch, wholly unsurprised that Jimmy had tried to let him sleep. Gremlin Bond needed some pointers in the lying department.

Tony sat up slowly, taking stock of his stupid lungs, and he was relieved to find the nap had left him feeling rested rather than lethargic. He could still hear the slight wheeze in his breathing and his hand still hurt like hell, but those were minor complaints; neither issue would get in the way of his interrogation of young Mr. Halsey.

Or his observation of that interrogation. Maybe it would be good to let his junior agents take a crack at their suspect first. Best case, Ziva and McGee would break Halsey and get a boost of confidence. Worst case, Tony took a shot after and called their attempt softening Halsey up for the big gun. Okay, so Ziva didn't need any help with confidence, but Tim did—and a joint victory was still a victory.

Tony pulled out his phone and called his senior field agent, knowing Tim would be thrilled to know that's how Tony thought of him. In all honesty, McGee was still a little green, and Tony thought—not for the first time—about how much he wished Kate were still alive. First, because she hadn't deserved to die on that damned rooftop; and second, because her seniority and experience would have made her an excellent SFA. But McGee had definite potential and Tony was willing to continue showing his probie the ropes. So Tony tried to put Kate out of his mind.

But his overactive imagination started to picture Kate and Ziva working together. Tony grinned, imagining Kate's face at Ziva's first mention of possible lesbian lovers. He wondered if Kate would put aside her puritanical schoolgirlish tendencies just to get a rise out of him.

_Probably_, he thought, jumping a little at the sudden voice in his ear.

"Yes, Boss?" McGee answered.

"What's your twenty?" Tony asked, grinning at the use of the title.

"Rollin' through the 'hood, hoping the homies don't start shooting," McGee said, sounding only slightly nervous.

"No worries, McG-Thang. You've got Ziva with you," Tony said. "You find Halsey?"

"He's in the back seat, giving a whole new meaning to the term 'white boy' after Ziva threatened to boot him out at the next light if he didn't shut up."

Tony laughed. "Nice work. You two get first shot at him when you get back."

There was a short silence on the line, and Tony hoped McGee would answer his silent question.

"Be there in twenty," Tim said.

Tony hung up with a grin. Yeah, maybe they just might be figuring out their new Gibbs-less existence.

He stuck the phone in his pocket and cocked his head, trying to decide if Jansen's brother was still with Jimmy. He didn't hear anything—and the walls were pretty thin—so he opened the door and walked into the big room.

"Hey, Palm— Oh."

He stopped at the sight of a tall blond man standing shoulder to shoulder with Jimmy behind a table holding Jansen's beaten body. There was a sheet covering the corpse to the neck, and Tony was glad the man couldn't see the rest of the damage to his brother's body, considering how upset he looked as he stood silently staring at Jansen's face.

"Mr. Jansen, I'm sorry for your loss," Tony said, starting toward the table.

The man simply nodded, distractedly, and Tony stopped when Jimmy shook his head slightly.

Tony studied Jimmy's face and realized the assistant was likely asking him to leave so the brother could grieve in private. The living Jansen was shaking, his hands braced against the table. So Tony headed for the doors after giving Jimmy a quick nod.

But then his stomach flip-flopped again, and Tony held in a groan at the sudden nausea while turning back to Palmer. "You mind if I borrow your mug?"

Jimmy looked relieved as he shook his head, and Tony thought again about how strange it was to have someone around who actually cared whether he took care of himself. Tony poured, admiring the movie-referencing mug and noting with a frown the chip in the saucer that Jimmy had been using. He couldn't remember if it had been there earlier, but he also knew Ducky wouldn't care—because Tony vaguely remembered the long-winded story of how the doctor had acquired the tea set. It had something to do with an antiques shop full of junk and a "lovely woman called Annette with skin so porcelain it looked as though she should be wary of chips herself."

"Thanks, Palmer," Tony said, strolling toward the doors, steaming mug in hand. He nodded at Jansen, but the man wasn't paying any attention to him and continued staring down at his dead brother's badly beaten face. Tony felt a pang of sympathy for the grieving man, even though he himself had no idea what it was like to grow up with a sibling. He frowned as he imagined splitting in half what little attention his father had given him, but then realized having the company of a brother or sister might have made up for it.

"No problem," Jimmy called after him. "I'd hate for you to end up like Mrs. Mallard, needing a home nurse who turns out to be a Russian spy."

Tony smiled and waved, but he hoped the joke from Jimmy's often runaway mouth hadn't offended Jansen. Just because the team was used to gallows humor didn't mean the general population was, too.

But Tony kept walking toward the elevator, his thoughts turning to the coming interrogation. With the way his stomach was twisting sickly, he hoped McGee and Ziva could crack Halsey without his help. He took the elevator upward, using the alone time to press a hand to his belly and lean his head back against the wall, silently telling himself to man up and just get through the rest of the investigation.

When the car stopped and spit him onto the squad room floor, he took a sharp left and made his way toward the head, wondering how his lungs had managed to coerce his stomach into turning traitor, too. He set the mug on the counter and went into the far stall, trying not to think about his expensive suit as he sank to his knees. As he knelt there on the men's room floor, wheezing and trying not to throw up, he couldn't stop a similar memory from taking over.

_Tony sat at the bar in a nondescript hotel in Indiana, wondering how the hell he'd gotten there. _

On a Gulfstream_, he thought, remembering the sleek jet and trying to forget the last time he had been on one. Because he had been with her, then. Flying to Gitmo, he had barely been able to contain his excitement about the plane, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost see Kate rolling hers at him as he gushed over the minibar and the flat-screen TVs. _

_But then the memories turned red, the only gushing being the blood pouring from the back of her head onto that dirty rooftop. _

_Tony coughed, his recently plague-damaged lungs still struggling to remember how to breathe normally. He was so exhausted he was starting to worry about how exactly he was going to drag himself up to his room when the bar closed in twenty minutes. He figured it would likely be the same way he had gotten through her funeral that afternoon—sheer will, determination, and the stubborn refusal to show his weakness. _

_But Gibbs had seen right through it, if the subtle backward glances as they walked away from the grave were any indication. And Tony was immensely grateful for the silent show of support. _

_He glanced around the empty bar and knew he was on his own this time. _

_He was used to it. _

_But it didn't mean he liked it, and Tony suddenly wished he wasn't sitting there alone, that he had accepted Abby's invitation to room with her. But he knew McGee needed her more, considering how the poor probie had practically stumbled through the wake, going from composed to half-panicked in such rapid cycles it would have made Tony sick even if he _wasn't_ still recovering from his heavyweight bout with the Black Death. _

_He knew he could go back to his room, make some inappropriate joke about Gibbs sneaking into the new director's room next door, and get a stern look and a pat on the back from Ducky. But he didn't want to. And he knew exactly why Gibbs and Shepard had demanded private rooms—two of the last four available—leaving Tony and his damaged lungs with the good doctor. _

_Tony shoved aside random memories of his father handing him off during one illness or another after his mother had died. It wasn't the same. _

_And yet Tony suddenly wanted Gibbs there with him, just as he had longed for his father's touch during those childhood bouts of cold and flu. _

_He sipped at his drink—his first, much to the annoyance of the bartender he had been ignoring for the past hour or two—and then he coughed, feeling annoyed with himself at allowing such melancholy thoughts to invade his headspace. If he were to let himself grieve tonight, at least he should be mourning Kate. _

"_That's why I drink bourbon," Gibbs said, sliding onto a stool beside him and frowning at Tony's scotch. "Smoother going down." He raised a hand to the bartender and then glanced at Tony's half-empty glass. _

_But Tony shook his head—he was still on medication and probably shouldn't be drinking at all. _

"_Yeah," Gibbs said as soon as the bartender was out of earshot, "you probably shouldn't be drinking with all those pills the docs have you on." _

_Tony gave Gibbs a wary look, suddenly wondering why he had wanted to spend time with a mind-reader. But just having Gibbs next to him—the solid presence of his mentor and maybe someday his friend—had Tony breathing easier for the first time since feeling Kate's blood slap him in the face. _

_The bartender set Gibbs' drink in front of him and then shot a pointed look at the clock. _

_Gibbs gave a half-smile and said, "I drink a lot faster than he does." _

_The man nodded and then went back to the other side of the bar, his attention back on the soft sounds of the baseball game on the TV there. _

_Tony's eyes were on the game, but his thoughts were swirling like the seams on a Randy Johnson fastball. _

Does he want me to talk? _he wondered. _Or just sit here, shut up, and finish my drink so he can say he tried? No, Gibbs doesn't care about appearances. And that would mean he's actually worried about me. Ha, more likely he's worried I might go clubbing and disgrace the agency or something. But I'm wearing jeans and wrinkled T-shirt… He must know I'd never go clubbing looking like this. And it's a Tuesday. And—

"_Don't have to talk if you don't want to," Gibbs said, softly, his eyes also glued to the ballgame. _

_They sat, side by side, for several long minutes as Gibbs finished his drink and waved off the bartender with a negative shake of his silver head. _

"_Just didn't think you should be alone," Gibbs said quietly._

_And that was all it took. _

_Tony shot to his feet and bolted for the door, leaving a sad-eyed Gibbs to toss some cash on the bar and follow him out into the vaguely gaudy lobby. _

_Tony sank to his knees on the bathroom floor, wishing like hell that he could make himself gasp silently. But the need for oxygen outweighed his need for his masks, for stubbornness, for dignity. So he put his head back against the stall wall and gulped in breath after breath, his impeccable hearing picking up Gibbs' own breathing as he waited just outside the closed partition door. Finally, he got his breathing under control enough to realize his stomach was trying to crawl its way up the back of his throat, and he cursed his stupid, weak body for picking this moment to betray him._

_He was still trying to convince himself this was an entirely physical problem when he heard the door swing open and shut. He waited for Gibbs to throw this poor stranger out when he realized he was the only one left in the restroom. The feeling of abandonment struck hard and deep even as Tony fought a valiant mental war to convince himself he didn't care. _

At least he stuck around long enough to make sure I didn't drop dead in here_, he thought, trying to pretend he was feeling miserable only because he was physically feeling miserable. _

"_Drink. Slow." _

_Tony pried his eyes open to find Gibbs sitting beside him in the big handicapped stall, a glass of water held out in a calloused hand. Tony sipped, finding in the blue eyes watching him all the concern and compassion Gibbs would never put a voice to. The simple kindness had Tony closing his eyes against tears for the second time that day, but again he did not let them fall. And he wouldn't. Not until much, much later, and certainly not with an audience. _

_Opening his eyes, Tony glanced at the closed partition. "I didn't know it was possible to pick a lock on a bathroom stall." _

_Gibbs smiled faintly. "You didn't lock it." _

_They sat there for a while—how long Tony didn't know because he wasn't wearing a watch, didn't want the reminder of the time Kate no longer had. Mostly, Tony was trying to reconcile this quietly patient figure sitting beside him on a bathroom floor with his hard-ass, double-b-for-bastard boss. He snuck quick glances at the man, trying to find traces of a tic or fidgets that said his patience was wearing thin. _

_But Gibbs simply sat, and Tony suddenly realized his double-b-for-bastard boss would sit there 'til sunup with him if he thought it necessary. _

"_Thanks, Boss." _

_Gibbs shot a sideways glance at him and then shrugged. "I owe you." _

_Tony's brow wrinkled in thoughtful concentration as he tried to remember if he had been anywhere near a rabbit hole recently. _

_Gibbs, ever the mind-reader, explained, "We'd be burying Abby next if you hadn't saved her life." _

_Tony flinched—hard—and had to fight not to do what he first came in here to do. The thought of losing both Kate and Abby was simply too much. He couldn't think about it, knew he never would have survived that. They would be burying him, too, and that bastard Ari would be only partly to blame. _

"_You don't give her enough credit," Tony said, knowing he sounded choked but unable to fix it. "She saved herself." _

"_DiNozzo—"_

"_No, Gibbs," Tony said, his tone slightly more calm. It wasn't his best performance—but it would have to do. "She hugged me, right before the shot, and I hugged her back. Right before Ari pulled the trigger, her knees gave out on her and I was too weak to hold her up. If anything, I owe her." _

_Tony would give his left arm to know what Gibbs was thinking right then, but the icy blue eyes remained unreadable. It was making Tony nervous. _

"_Or maybe I should send a thank-you note to crazy plague-lady Hannah Lowell," Tony said. "If I hadn't been feeling like shit—"_

"_Enough," Gibbs growled, suddenly standing and pulling Tony up to his feet. He pointed a finger in Tony's face and asked, "You forgetting we almost lost you, too?" _

_Tony blinked in shock at the rough emotion in the words, and he was glad he was trapped between the wall and Gibbs and couldn't fall over even if he wanted to. He nodded slowly, not entirely sure what he was communicating, and then he shook his head. It shouldn't be surprising to know that Gibbs cared about him, too. Hell, the man had ordered him to live—and trusted Tony to obey. _

"_My ass is asleep," Tony said, eyeing Gibbs and watching his boss apparently decide he was going to be okay. _

"_Rest of you should be, too," Gibbs said, walking out of the stall but staying close by Tony's side. "You look like crap, Tony." _

"_Might not get much sleep sharing a room with Ducky. He snores," Tony said, shooting a wicked grin at Gibbs. "You think I could sneak in with Director Shepard? Does our new madam director snore?" _

_Gibbs headslapped him lightly. "Shut up, DiNozzo." _

_Tony smiled. "Thank you, Boss." _

"Boss?"

Tony's head snapped up—from where it was resting on his arm, on the toilet, he realized, much to his chagrin—and it took him a moment to realize McGee was talking to _him_.

"You okay in there?" McGee asked, sounding as nervous as when he'd been rollin' through the ghetto.

"Yeah," Tony said, forcing himself upright. He was happy to find his breathing felt somewhat easier, but his stomach was still in knots. He exited the stall and started washing his hands. "You've got Halsey in interrogation?"

"Yep," McGee said, studying his boss like he was a particularly intriguing computer problem.

"Good," Tony said, shooting a paper towel into the trash with expert accuracy. "Let's go see if he's our third dirtbag."


	16. Chapter 16

Tony followed McGee into the observation room and found a bored-looking Ziva sharpening her knife. Well, one of her knives, anyway.

"We really get to talk to him first?" she asked.

Tony had to admire her Gibbs-like non-greeting, but he just said, "Only if you promise not to stab him."

"Deal," she said, her eyes lighting up as she popped to her feet. "Shall we, McGee?"

Tony slid a step to his right to block the door. He gave Ziva a stern look and held out his uninjured hand.

"Gibbs never took my knives," she said, her eyes appraising.

Tony smiled. "You're looking particularly dangerous today."

She rolled her eyes and handed over the knife. "I will need that back."

"Of course," Tony said, stepping aside and nodding to McGee, who had been watching the exchange with barely veiled amusement. "Go on, Probie. This kid isn't getting any younger." Tony glanced at the suspect on the other side of the glass. "And if he does, we'll need his mommy's permission to interrogate him."

Tony caught the smile on Ziva's face as she left the room, and he found himself matching it. He was fairly shocked she had given up the knife so easily, and he realized it was because she was excited to be given the challenge of interrogating the suspect. He filed that away as a mental note: more challenges for Ziva, more confidence-building for Tim. He winced as he realized he had no idea how to handle Lee, but he decided to figure that out later.

Tony leaned against the edge of the window, hoping his agents had used the extra time since they got back to come up with a strategy. That time spent "icing" the suspect seemed to have put young Mr. Halsey in quite the foul mood.

"I want my damned phone call and I want it now," Halsey said. The demand started out firm and ended in a slightly high-pitched near-squeak that seemed to embarrass the kid, who was obviously trying to play tough guy. "You people have kept me in here like a dog long enough. Phone call. Now," he said, his voice wavering only a little this time.

"You will get your call," Ziva said, leaning on the mirror at the opposite end of Tony on the other side while McGee took the chair across from Halsey.

The positions were obviously prearranged between his agents, and Tony hoped they had discussed more than seating arrangements. Tandem interrogations weren't always easy—unless you had experience with whomever you were working with. Tony and Gibbs could work a suspect together so well that it was as natural as breathing, but it hadn't always been that way.

McGee put Jansen's driver's license photo on the table. "Do you know this man?"

While Halsey took his sweet time studying the photo, Tony allowed his mind to wander back to one of his and Gibbs' early interrogations. They had been about to walk into the room, holding a kid quite similar to Nicholas Monroe Halsey III, and Gibbs had stopped in the hall to give Tony the plan.

"_Just do what you do best, DiNozzo." _

"_Uh, Boss. He's not a chick and I try really hard not to date murderers." _

_The smack was not unexpected, even back then. "Annoy the piss out of him, Tony. I'll handle the rest." _

Tony's smile faded, both because his agents were letting the charade of Halsey's studying go on too long and because of the painful longing that the memory of Gibbs had brought on—not that he would ever admit that last part.

"It's a simple question, Halsey," McGee said, his tone firm.

The stubborn kid stayed stubbornly silent.

McGee opened the file and slid the photo of Jansen's battered face onto the table over top of the glossy print from the ID.

"How about now?" McGee asked.

_Nice,_ Tony thought, nodding approvingly even though his agent couldn't see him.

"If I tell you, will I get my phone call?" Halsey asked, his voice starting to quiver.

"Perhaps," Ziva said. "Now answer the question."

Halsey's eyes darted around the small room, landing on every possible surface except the photo of Jansen's bloody face. "I, uh… What if I want to call a lawyer?"

Tony sighed. If Halsey demanded a lawyer—no doubt with someone who wore thousand-dollar shoes and was paid for by dear ol' daddy—they were screwed. The team occasionally played fast and loose with the rules, but Tony wasn't about to let one of his first cases as team leader be ruined on appeal.

"Well, we could—" McGee started.

But Ziva cut him off. "Do you want a lawyer, Mr. Halsey?"

_Attagirl, Ziva, _Tony thought. But he held his breath until the suspect answered.

"No," Halsey said, lifting his chin a little. "Innocent people don't need lawyers."

Tony let the breath out—and ending up coughing so hard the tech in the room with him started eyeing him with concern. Tony ignored him, tried not to think about the gunk that he was swallowing, and forced himself to focus on the other side of the glass. It wasn't easy—considering how his stomach was still swishing inside him like a washing machine.

"And no," Halsey said, glancing at Jansen's photo before quickly averting his eyes from the bloody mess, "I don't know that guy."

Tony believed him. And from what he could see of Ziva's face as she lounged against the window, so did she. Apparently, they were all on the same page, because McGee gathered the photos and stuck them back in the file. He replaced them with the photo from Hartz' ID, and Tony mentally commended him for not using the autopsy photo. Gore could be good for rattling guilty suspects, but it often only distracted witnesses, and it was seeming more and more likely that Halsey wasn't their killer.

"And the name Edward Hartz?" Ziva asked as McGee tossed out the photo. "Does that ding a bell?"

Halsey had the audacity to laugh, but he was cut off mid-chuckle by Ziva's surging forward, her small hands hitting the table with a loud _smack_. She leaned into his space, her mouth mere inches from his stunned face as she stared him down, nose to nose. "What is so funny?" she breathed.

"I, um, think you meant 'ring a bell', ma'am," Halsey said quietly.

"Oh," Ziva said, straightening and cocking her head to the side. "I speak many languages, and it is difficult to keep them all straight. How would you like to be conducting this interview in Russian?"

"I… I would prefer English, ma'am," Halsey said. And then he continued, unprompted. "I know Jamie Hartz from school—Edward is his father."

Tony felt a sinking feeling in his already troublesome stomach. The sinking feeling was accompanied by the sudden urge to vomit, and he was glad the interview was being recorded in case he had to make a run for the head mid-interrogation.

"So you bought the counterfeit bills from Jamie's father then?" McGee asked, sounding dubious himself.

Halsey's eyes went wide and Ziva was far away enough for him to raise his voice again. "_That's_ where the fake cash came from?" he said, his angry question ending in a squeak. He winced—likely in response to some nonverbal cue from Ziva to calm down—and he said, more quietly, "I told my dad—and the police—that I had no idea those bills were fake. I was bitching—erm, complaining, ma'am—about being broke since my dad cut off my allowance after I got caught driving drunk, and Jamie opened his wallet and gave me a hundred bucks. It wasn't even a loan, he said, so I was like, 'Cool,' you know?"

"Why did you not tell the police where you got the money?" Ziva asked.

Halsey shrugged. "I forgot about it."

Both agents studied the kid, who wouldn't look at either of them.

"Try again," McGee said, just as Ziva started toward the table again.

Halsey turned red and looked away from Ziva's probing glare. "I really did forget about it. I forgot Jamie even gave me the money until you mentioned counterfeit bills."

"And?" Ziva said, clearly sensing Halsey was holding back.

Tony decided to compliment his agents when they were finished, and to give an extra pat on the head to the Mossad officer, because his gut agreed with hers.

Or at least he thought so. It was hard to tell with the nausea making him so utterly miserable.

"And," Halsey said, giving in with a sigh, "I kinda stole something from my dad the next day and pawned it. I put the money from the painting—some tiny little thing he kept in a closet and obviously didn't miss—with the money Jamie gave me, and I forgot about it. It just… totally slipped my mind."

Suddenly, Tony's gut started twisting with the force of an F5 tornado. And he realized it wasn't because he needed to throw up.

The damned thing was trying to tell him something.

But what?

Halsey was a thief with little regard for the law, but he wasn't a killer. The kid seemed more worried about what Daddy would think about his getting picked up by cops—again—than the prospect of doing hard time for murder.

So if Halsey wasn't the third man in the alley…

And Hartz and Jansen were lying dead downstairs…

Tony thought back to when his gut had started churning, and he realized it was before the interrogation. The nausea had started down in autopsy—and hit a crescendo at something Ziva had said.

But what?

"_How would you like to be conducting this interview in Russian?" _

Russian.

Jimmy had called Mrs. Mallard's home nurse a _Russian_ spy.

But that wasn't right. The accused "Persian spy" was clearly Chinese, Jimmy had said. But then he had called her a Russian spy.

But why?

Tony turned and smacked the intercom, cutting Ziva off mid-question on the other side of the glass. "McGee, David, with me."

Tony met his obviously confused agents in the hall, and he opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by Ziva, who was both confused and clearly pissed.

"We were not finished, DiNozzo. Jamie Hartz could be involved and you said we could conduct the—"

"Palmer's in trouble," Tony said, realizing with a sharp stab of painful regret that he had completely missed Jimmy's cry for help. He moved quickly toward the squad room. "Jansen's brother came to ID the body today, but I don't think that's the only reason he's here. Palmer tried to tell me something was wrong, but I missed it. McGee, get me autopsy on the plasma. Ziva, alert Jenny that we may have intruders in the building."

The sense of déjà vu smacked Tony in his obviously malfunctioning gut, and he almost laughed, realizing the French term was appropriate, considering he and Kate had been talking about his bête noire the morning she, Ducky, and Gerald were taken hostage in autopsy. But Tony didn't laugh—too many people had been hurt that day. Not to mention that Ari had eventually taken Kate's life.

Tony pulled his head out of the past and focused on the situation as McGee put up the cameras on autopsy on the screen.

The room was empty.

Both hope and stark terror crowded Tony's throat. Either he was wrong about the signal, or Jansen—the living one—had taken Jimmy somewhere and done who knows what with him.

Ziva was at her desk, phone in hand as her fingers hovered over the numbers. "Tony?" she asked, waiting on him to tell her whether or not to call to the director.

"Make the call," Tony said firmly. He stepped closer to the screen and stared at the empty autopsy suite. He took a slow breath to calm himself and said, softly, "Something's wrong. I can feel it."


	17. Chapter 17

Jimmy Palmer considered himself a fairly brave person.

But even the bravest person in the world would be an idiot for disobeying an armed madman.

So when Jansen—the one still breathing, named Robert—pointed that big black gun at him and told him to shut the hell up, Jimmy shut the hell up. He had even managed to keep his eyes off the gun as it lay on the autopsy table, hidden from Tony's view by the dead Jansen's body.

At first, Palmer wasn't sure why Jansen had set down the gun, but as Tony approached to offer his condolences and Jansen covered the weapon with the sheet, he got it.

And his stomach sank to the floor as he realized Jansen wasn't an idiot.

_"Which seats him in the crazy but not stupid category." _

Jimmy almost started giggling at the movie reference—one he knew Tony would appreciate, considering they had talked about that particular action flick during dinner a few nights earlier—but one glance at the gun had him wondering if he would stay alive long enough to ever laugh again.

Palmer thought about yelling as loud as he could, but he realized Jansen was just as likely to shoot Tony as he was to kill his squealing hostage. And going for the gun was out of the question, too, considering Jimmy didn't even know if the safety was on. Or if the weapon even had a safety. Or if he could grab it before Jansen could.

So Palmer shook his head at the agent, hoping like hell Jansen wouldn't see the slight movement.

Jimmy held his breath, releasing it when Tony got the message and turned to leave. He barely held in a yelp as Tony stopped—and Jansen's hand strayed toward the gun.

Jimmy had seen a lot of bullet wounds over the years. But he had never seen a bullet go through a friend.

And he wanted to keep it that way.

So he nodded his assent when Tony asked to borrow his mug, and then he hoped like hell the agent would notice the chip in the saucer, caused by Jimmy's dropping the cup when Jansen had snuck up on him and pressed the gun into his back only a few minutes earlier.

_Fat chance_, Jimmy thought, remembering the story Dr. Mallard had told him about the lovely, porcelain-skinned Annette and her antiques shop full of junk. Jimmy suddenly wished he _had_ spiked Tony's tea earlier. As much as Jimmy wanted to be rescued, wanted this to be all over, he didn't want Tony to get hurt because of him. He was going to have to be smart about this.

Jimmy swallowed hard as Tony filled the mug, thanked him, and turned for the doors. With a quick glance at his silent captor, Jimmy called out what he hoped would be a subtle clue to Tony that all was not as it seemed.

"No problem. I'd hate for you to end up like Mrs. Mallard, needing a home nurse who turns out to be a Russian spy."

Tony chuckled and waved.

And then the agent was gone.

Jimmy blinked several times, unable to believe Tony had just left. Just like that. It was what Jimmy had wanted—kinda—but he had expected some sort of super secret spy acknowledgment of his clue. Jimmy held in a sigh, realizing life didn't often work out like in the movies.

And realizing, too, that he was now left with a man holding a gun.

Suddenly noticing that gun was pointed at him again, Jimmy held up both hands. "I'll give you whatever you want," he said, his voice calmed only by the thought that Tony might be gathering his team at this very moment to storm autopsy and take out this nutbag.

If Tony had gotten the signal.

Not that Jimmy could really blame him if he had missed it. Tony had lungs full of fluid thanks to a serious respiratory infection and seventeen stitches in his hand that had to sting like blazes. Jimmy wasn't dumb enough to think that Tony had actually taken the painkillers he'd forced the agent to pick up. Palmer had insisted mostly to start planting the mental seed that it was okay to seek relief from painful injuries. But, well, planting seeds was one thing; it took a long time for trees to grow.

Jimmy pulled himself out of his rambling thoughts completely as Jansen took a step toward him, the gun suddenly huge in his hand.

"There's only one thing I want from you."

* * *

><p>The team, including a silently pacing Abby, gathered in the squad room, a schematic of the building on the plasma while other agents worked on clearing the building.<p>

"As soon as the FBI's HRT arrives, we'll flood the subbasement with agents. There's no way Jansen is getting out of this building," Shepard said.

"No," Tony said, quietly but firmly.

All eyes in the room landed on his pale face.

"No," he repeated, watching Jenny's face go as red as her hair. "Jansen has a hostage. If we send in a bunch of agents, there's too high a chance that this will end in a firefight—with Jimmy caught in the middle. It's a chance I'm not willing to take."

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "It's not your call to make, Agent DiNozzo," she said crisply, her eyes going to the plasma. "We wait for HRT."

"Listen, Jenny—"

"It's Director Shepard, or Ma'am," she said, turning cold eyes on the agent.

A muscle twitched in Tony's jaw and he said, "_Director, _this might be your agency, but Jimmy is my friend." His green eyes flashed with pain, but Tony held her gaze steadily. The thought never even crossed his mind that Gibbs would never let her make this decision for him—because _Tony_ knew it was a mistake. "And I could have ended this a half-hour ago if I had caught Jimmy's signal. I didn't. I need to make this right."

"And perhaps you would have caught the signal," Shepard said, her icy tone a sharp contrast to the fire in her eyes, "if you weren't sick, exhausted, and in pain. Go home, DiNozzo. I'll take this from here."

"No," Tony said again, straightening from the desk he had been leaning against. He shoved aside every bit of that pain and exhaustion, and he said firmly, "You're making a mistake. Using force to end this will only end it badly."

The entire room stayed silent—Abby even stopped pacing—as Shepard eyed the agent.

DiNozzo eyed her right back.

The tension between them crackled with nearly audible intensity, but Tony stood his ground. He planned on leading this team for a long time, and he needed to show the director—to show his team—that he wouldn't back down when one of them was in trouble. He decided right then and there that DiNozzo's Rule No. 1 was that he wouldn't sit on the sidelines when his people were in trouble.

"And you have a better plan?" she said.

The sentence was as much mocking as questioning, but Tony shrugged it off. He didn't care about anything but getting Palmer out of this in one piece.

"I do," Tony said, leaning back against the desk, both to try to de-escalate the pissing match and because he needed to save his strength for saving Jimmy. "This guy isn't here for a shootout. He's not here for revenge. He didn't come for the body, because he'd be getting it tomorrow anyway. He didn't come for anything Jansen had on him, because Jimmy would easily have handed over his belongings. He's here for only one thing, Director."

She shot him an angry, impatient glare.

But Tony didn't answer. He waited a beat and watched it click on the faces of his team.

Abby, McGee and Ziva all answered at the same time.

"The money."

Tony's quick flash of a grin died as he watched the rising ire in Shepard's eyes. "He wants his money and then he'll want to get the hell out of here."

"So we just let him take the cash and run?" she said, her lips twisting into a bad impression of a smile. "I don't think so."

Tony tried not to sigh. "I think we need to take a more subtle approach."

He quickly outlined his plan, his eyes more on his team than the director.

Until he finished.

Then Tony looked Shepard straight in the eyes and waited for her to shoot him down and take over.

"Fine," she agreed, making Tony blink in surprise. But then she returned his stare. "Except for one thing. You are in no shape to be taking part in this op—not in your weakened condition."

Tony ignored the heat rising in his cheeks and he started to protest.

But Shepard just continued, her tone formal and unrelenting. "Special Agent DiNozzo, you are hereby ordered to stand down from this operation."

Tony looked around at his team, their faces registering everything from concern to trepidation to reluctant agreement.

But not one of them spoke.

"Yes, Ma'am," he bit out, turning on his heel and walking away without another word.

* * *

><p>"I want my money," Jansen said, his gun pointed steadily at Jimmy's chest. "Where is it?"<p>

Jimmy cocked his head. "And you think I can get it for you?" he asked, trying to look at the man and not the gun. "I'm a medical examiner's assistant. Not an agent. If I go ask the evidence tech for a box of money, she'll laugh in my face."

Jimmy stopped, wondering if he should even have mentioned the tech. He shuddered, his stomach lurching with the image of the gun being used on poor, sweet Charlene because of his stupid slip. Then again, he highly doubted Jansen would have just let his hostage stroll out of the room alone if Jimmy had said, "Sure. Be right back. Would you like fries with that?"

Jansen would insist on accompanying him.

The only way to keep the gunman away from Charlene was to keep him from leaving the room. Jimmy glanced around, wishing like hell the many sharp instruments in the room weren't all tucked away in their proper places.

"Don't even think about it," Jansen said, following Jimmy's eyes. "I'll put a bullet in your head before you even get a drawer open."

Jimmy just stared, wondering how the man had read his mind.

Jansen smiled.

Jimmy had seen reptiles look happier.

"You had to use something sharp to cut open my dear brother, didn't you?"

Jimmy ignored the question and asked one of his own. "Did you kill him?" He might not get out of this alive, but maybe he could help Tony solve his case. He knew Jansen hadn't noticed the cameras trained on the room, much more discreetly placed than the one Ari Haswari had shot only a few years ago.

Jansen looked surprised by the question, and Palmer thought again about going for the gun.

But Jansen just shook his head and took a small step back. "No need to be a hero. You give me what I want, and I'll be gone. No one needs to get hurt." His face fell as his eyes landed on his dead brother, and Jimmy realized he hadn't been entirely faking his grief earlier. "No one _else_ needs to die," Jansen said.

Palmer's mind was whirling as he tried to come up with a plan.

"That bastard Hartz killed my baby brother," Jansen said after a moment, tearing his eyes away from the corpse.

_That was easy_, Jimmy thought, stifling what would have been a somewhat hysterical giggle.

"No one was supposed to get hurt," Jansen continued, now looking at Jimmy with regret in his eyes. "Matty and I were posing as competing counterfeiters, trying to drive up the price. The money you found was 'his' product, but we spent hours and hours together duplicating all those bills. 'My' bills weren't as good, but they were still passable. The plan was for me and Matty to argue a little, try to one-up each other so one of us would get the highest possible price."

Jansen closed his eyes, and Jimmy backed away slightly, his eyes on the rack of pipettes he so hated cleaning. If he could just get to them, break one, and—

"Matty screwed up," Jansen said, his voice pained. His eyes opened and it stopped Palmer in his tracks, the glass tubes just out of his reach. "He called me by my real name, instead of the fake one I had given Hartz earlier. Hartz realized immediately what we were trying to do, and he freaked out. He grabbed the case with my money in it, and he slammed it against Matty's head. There was just so much blood… I think he was dead before he hit the ground."

"He likely was," Jimmy said, his tone sympathetic as he momentarily slipped back into his ME's assistant headspace. Jansen's eyes closed again, briefly, and Jimmy took another small step toward the pipettes.

"Hartz just kept beating on him though," Jansen said, his eyes narrowing on Jimmy as he focused again. He glanced at the rack holding Palmer's potential weapons. "Take one more step toward those and I'll put a round through your skull."

Jimmy froze. He almost decided to just give the crazy guy what he wanted—until he remembered sweet Charlene over in evidence. There was no way to get the cash without involving her somehow.

And then Palmer realized Jansen might not know that they had the cash.

"So that's when you took off?" Jimmy said. He winced at the sudden rage in the man's eyes. "When, uh, you realized Matty was dead? When you realized you couldn't help him? That's when you ran?"

Jansen smiled. But it was a cold, hard thing. "Yeah, that's when I took off."

Jimmy's pulse picked up, but he kept his face expressionless even as he started crafting his lie. He would just tell Jansen that there had been no money at the scene, that Hartz must have taken it with him.

"But I stayed in the area," Jansen said.

Palmer's short-lived elation fell flat, and he remembered his earlier movie-referencing "crazy, not stupid" evaluation.

"I saw Hartz come out of the alley with just one case," he said. He frowned. "It was the case with my money in it so I guess he wanted to take the murder weapon with him, but I don't know why he left the other one with all that money in it."

"Maybe he put it all in one?" Jimmy ventured, hoping like hell Jansen would buy that and leave. _Riiiiiiiight_, he thought, _and I'm Keanu Reeves. Or maybe I'd be Jeff Daniels, the trusty sidekick. Or is Jack the sidekick to Harry? I really need to rent that movie. _

Jimmy glanced at the gun. _I really, really need to stop hanging out with Tony. There's a gun pointed at me and I'm thinking about popping over to Blockbuster… _

"Wouldn't fit," Jansen said. "And I stuck around long enough to watch your people carry my case of the alley. Damned cops got there so fast I couldn't grab it myself. I know you have my money. The next words out of your mouth had better be a plan on how to get it."

Jimmy swallowed an "Um" and stayed silent, thinking furiously. He figured Hartz had seen the size error in the money, and that's why he left it behind. But Jimmy also figured telling Jansen about his mistake wasn't a great idea either.

"How about you go down and get my brother's things," Jansen said after a moment, apparently feeling helpful. "And if you can manage to get my money without alerting the evidence tech, then she gets to live."

Jimmy sighed, and—very slowly—pointed over Jansen's shoulder at the bag resting on a cabinet near the doors. "I went to get his things while I was waiting for you. You were late."

And then he gave himself a mental headslap. It probably wasn't smart to criticize the crazy guy.

Especially when crazy guy had a gun.

"Then say you forgot something," Jansen said, his hand tightening on the weapon as he started to lose patience.

Jimmy nodded, suddenly forming a plan, and he moved toward the bag but stopped short when Jansen pointed the gun at his head. Palmer stood stock-still and said, "There's a watch in the bag. You can put it in your pocket and I'll tell the tech it's missing. She might let me look for it."

Palmer knew he was taking a chance with this plan. He knew the bag would have sat unopened in the lockup ever since Abby was finished with its contents, and he knew the tech would know that, too. But Jimmy also knew it wouldn't be the first time a family member claimed NCIS had lost a piece of property. He knew he could give Charlene a look and pretend like he was just humoring Jansen. He just hoped she would play along and not get suspicious.

Palmer also knew keeping Jansen in autopsy was no longer an option. He knew that if he stopped cooperating, Jansen would just shoot him—and possibly shoot his way through the building on his way to get his money.

"You better hope she does," Jansen said, reaching out and giving the assistant a rough shove toward the doors.

Palmer found himself grinding his teeth as Jansen jammed the gun into his back while he fished out the watch and handed it over. "You better hope she does, too," Jimmy said, tone defiant even though he was shaking inside. "If you fire that gun, there will be agents all over you."

"Which is why you're going to play nice," Jansen said as he folded his coat over his arm and concealed the weapon. "I won't hurt you unless I have to."

Jimmy nodded and moved for the doors.

But Jansen grabbed his arm, shoving the gun into his face. "This payday was our last hope. And now my baby brother is dead. I'm going to get my money. Do you understand?"

Jimmy nodded again, slowly, his stomach twisting at the rage gleaming in his captor's eyes.

"No one is going to stop me, and you'd better hope no one tries." Jansen shoved Jimmy through the autopsy doors. "Because you'll be the first to die."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Super sorry I missed the boat last week and didn't post a new chapter. Who wants another one this week to make up for it? Yes? No? Maybe?


	18. Chapter 18

Jimmy realized he had definitely seen too many movies when he stepped out of autopsy and genuinely expected to hear a crack of gunfire, an expertly fired bullet taking down Jansen with a single shot. Then Tony would step out from his hiding place and grin, asking, "You weren't really _scared_, were you, Jimmy?"

But apparently no one was going to save him but himself.

"My name is Jimmy."

"What?" Jansen asked, jabbing him with the gun but keeping the weapon covered even in the empty hallway.

"My name is Jimmy."

"Like I care," Jansen said.

But Jimmy saw the flicker of unease pass through the man's eyes, and he wondered if Jansen had ever taken a life before. He doubted it. But he wasn't entirely sure what to do with that piece of information, other than file it away.

"We need to go up," Jimmy said, pausing by the elevator.

Jansen smiled that creepy smile and glanced around, making sure they were still alone. "You want to take the elevator? So you can poke a button and spit us out on a floor full of agents? I don't think so."

Jimmy froze.

Jansen just laughed softly. "So if the lockup isn't on this floor, I'm guessing it's on the next floor up? Next to the garage, right? Because sometimes cars are evidence?"

Jimmy just stared at the man, mystified.

"I watch CSI," Jansen said, shrugging.

Palmer decided life must have been much, much easier before forensics invaded pop culture.

"It's one floor up, next to the garage," Jimmy said, not bothering to lie. He almost said "next to the forensics lab" but he didn't want this psycho getting any ideas about using Abby to get his money. Jimmy just hoped with everything in him that she would be blaring music and wouldn't notice their passage through the hall outside her lab. He might not be able to save Charlene from dealing with Jansen, but he damned sure wasn't going to hand over any more hostages.

As they made their way up the stairs, Jimmy felt like his feet were made of lead. But he continued on, no clue how to spare Charlene, too. Walking in front of Jansen, Palmer looked up at the discreet camera in the corner of the stairwell and mouthed several words, including "help," "lockup," and "gun," just in case the security guys were actually looking at this video. Even though he doubted they were—working security for a building _inside_ a Navy base must be pretty boring—he still tapped out an "SOS" with his tongue on his teeth, hoping someone, anyone, would notice the odd movement.

"Walk faster," Jansen said, shoving the gun harder into Jimmy's back. "I don't have all damned day."

* * *

><p>Upstairs in the evidence lockup, the phone was ringing.<p>

"Evidence, this is Char—"

"Charlene, it's Abby. I need you to get out of there, right now. I'll explain everything later, but you need to leave. Right. Now. I have an agent waiting outside for you, okay? Just do what he tells you."

"Yes," Charlene said, blinking rapidly in surprise and fear. "Okay, I will." She hung up the phone and made a beeline for the door, not even bothering to grab her purse.

A few floors up, Abby hung up the phone and nodded at the director, trying not to glare. How _dare_ she call Tony weak? To his face? Even half-dead from the damned plague, Tony had saved Kate and McGee from that bomb in the trunk of that car. Tony was the epitome of strength—even when he wasn't. Abby would never forget how he had lain in that awful blue room, gasping for breath and too exhausted to sit up—but still reassuring _her_ that everything was going to be okay, still squeezing her hand tightly, using every last bit of his strength to show her he meant it.

Abby wanted to go to him, to hug him and try to give _him_ some reassurances, for once. She suddenly realized with a painful jolt of guilt that since Gibbs had left, she hadn't once asked Tony if he was okay, even though she knew how much he was hurting, too.

She decided that once this was over, she would take him out for dinner and a movie and try to find a way to thank him for being there for her. Always.

Abby hugged Bert, eliciting a fart that made several agents' heads turn. But she didn't care. She just touched the new collar around the hippo's neck and smiled, knowing exactly who had put it there.

* * *

><p>Jimmy walked up the final few steps and thought about throwing his weight backward into his captor. He knew that it was just the two of them in the stairwell, where bullets couldn't strike an innocent passerby, and that as soon as they stepped out into the hall, he was putting others at risk.<p>

Just the thought of running into Abby outside her lab made Jimmy's stomach do cartwheels inside him.

Palmer knew just about everyone thought of him as just a geeky assistant. But he had muscles under his scrubs. He imagined reaching out for the doorknob and slamming his elbow backward into Jansen's face.

It could work.

But Jimmy also had assisted in enough autopsies to know that all the muscle in the world was no match for bullets.

And there was still a chance that Jimmy could get the money without tipping off Charlene to the danger. He could still get her out of this, even if he wasn't entirely sure Jansen would let him go as he had promised. But there was no way he could help Charlene if he were lying dead in the stairwell.

So Jimmy reached out and turned the knob, fighting the urge to at least try to overpower this bastard.

They stepped into an empty hall, and Jimmy breathed a quick sigh of relief before holding his breath as they passed Abby's lab. His heart lurched as he realized there was no music pounding from within, but they walked by the door without incident and Jimmy started breathing again, hoping like hell Abby was on a Caf-Pow! run. Or maybe she was upstairs, trying to talk Tony into going home for some rest. Jimmy knew the usually sharp agent had to be feeling pretty awful to have missed the signal, but again he cut him some slack, remembering just how sick Tony had looked.

Jimmy stopped thinking about anything as they made it to the door to the evidence lockup and Jansen poked him in the back with the gun and said, "Remember. Get my money and no one gets hurt."

Jimmy nodded even though he didn't really believe him. He took a deep breath and walked into the room, expecting a cheerful greeting from Charlene.

What he got was … nothing?

"Charlene?" he called, not wanting the woman to pop up suddenly and spook Jansen.

But no one answered.

Palmer breathed another huge sigh of relief.

And then he gasped in pain as Jansen shoved him back against the door and punched him in the face.

Jimmy's hands flew up to his cheek, throbbing with the force of the blow, and he tried to focus on what Jansen was yelling.

"You did this! You tipped them off somehow and now they know! Goddammit, what did you do?"

"I… Nothing," Jimmy said, holding up his hands so Jansen wouldn't have a good reason to shoot him.

Not that the man really needed one.

"It's almost five," Jimmy said, turning his wrist and showing his watch. "She probably just left early."

Jansen calmed. Somewhat.

Jimmy just watched him, waiting—and wondering if he was going to live long enough for what would certainly be a killer black eye to form.

"Change of plans," Jansen said, grabbing Jimmy by the front of his scrubs and shoving him toward the evidence cage. "You get my money, and then you're going to get me off base. And _then_ maybe I'll let you live."

"Maybe?" Jimmy repeated, stopping and turning slightly.

He got a backhand to the mouth and a gun shoved in his now-bleeding face for his trouble.

"Or I could just shoot you right now."

* * *

><p>"Wait!"<p>

Ziva grabbed McGee by the arm as they ran toward the evidence garage.

"What?" McGee asked in the same stage whisper his partner had used.

Ziva cocked her head, and then she closed her eyes. "Dammit," she hissed. "We are too late. Palmer and Jansen are already inside."

McGee's eyes went wide as he realized Tony's plan of putting Ziva in as "Charlene the evidence tech"—with Tim hiding in the cage as backup—was completely shot to hell.

"What do we do now?" he whispered, wincing as he heard something large and heavy being pushed against the door.

Ziva heard it, too, and said, "Aside from breaking down the door?"

"Ziva—"

"I know," she said, cutting off Tim's warning. She sighed. "We call the director and let her know."

McGee nodded. "And I'll call Tony."

"McGee—"

"No, Ziva," Tim said, angry. "I don't care if the director ordered him off this. Jimmy's his friend—he's _our_ friend—and Tony is still our team leader."

"McGee," Ziva said, holding up a hand. "I was just going to say, tell him to hurry back."

They shared a look that turned into twin smiles.

"No way he left the building," Tim said.

"No way in hell," Ziva agreed.

* * *

><p>Upstairs, Abby was eavesdropping on the director when Shepard got the call from Ziva. The scientist didn't even need her mad lip-reading skills to understand what was happening.<p>

They were too late.

And now poor Palmer was stuck in the evidence lockup with a madman.

Abby tried not to think about the last time they had a hostage situation in the building.

Because that would mean remembering seeing Gibbs' blood on Tony's hands after that bastard Ari shot her bossman.

And then she would think about Gibbs and miss him.

And then she would think about Tony and hope he was okay.

And then she would think about Ari and how he had killed her best friend.

And then she would think about Kate and want to cry.

And…

So much for trying not to think.

Abby was glad for the distraction when the phone Tony had discreetly dropped on his desk started vibrating. She snatched it up and didn't bother answering it.

She knew who was calling.

"That's it, then," Shepard was saying into her phone. "We wait for HRT. I mean it, Ziva, this is a direct order to stand down."

Abby clenched her teeth, fuming at the director's second order to the team to stand down when one of their own was in trouble. Didn't the woman get it? Gibbs might have forgotten himself—momentarily, Abby assured herself—and they might be Team DiNozzo now, but they were still a team. They still had each others' backs, no matter what.

Shepard clicked the phone shut and turned to Abby, holding out her hand for Tony's cell.

Abby hesitated.

"Agent DiNozzo's phone, Abby," Shepard said. "Now."

Abby handed it over with a defiant tilt of her chin. "You don't have to check. It was McGee who called him. You _had to know_ that Tim would call him."

"Of course I did," Jenny said, softening slightly. "And you know what that means, right? They're starting to see Tony as their leader. That's a good thing."

"Yes, Ma'am," Abby said quietly, turning away so the director wouldn't read the troubled look on her face. Abby had learned a lot of things from Tony—the best date movies, the worst pick-up lines, how to bong a beer in under seven seconds—but he had never shared with her his art of making masks. Abby was certain Shepard would take one look at her and demand answers.

Abby knew the phone call from Tim was a good sign. But she also knew the phone being left on the desk was a bad thing. Shepard probably assumed Tony was pissed and didn't want to deal with phone calls.

But Abby knew him better than that.

Gibbs' Rule No. 3—_Never_ be unreachable—was as ingrained in Tony as it was in Abby.

But there was also a little-known exception to that rule: _Never_ be unreachable—unless you were somewhere that the ringing of a phone could get you killed.

Abby knew Tony well enough to know that he would never walk away when a friend was in trouble. It just wouldn't happen. It was more likely that the world would stop turning and no one would fall off. Hell would out-freeze a Minnesota winter first. The Air Force would pilot pigs first!

Abby had to stop before she started to giggle, because she was afraid she would end up laughing hysterically out of fear.

"You, call HRT and find out what the hell is taking them so long," the director barked from across the room. She pointed to another agent. "And you, go find DiNozzo and sit on him. I don't want him anywhere near this when it goes down."

Abby was about to get indignant—and loud—when she lip-read Jenny's muttered addition to that: "He's way too much like Gibbs in situations like this." Abby smiled. She shared Shepard's thoughts on that—but none of the director's wondering where DiNozzo might be. She did wonder if she should thank Jenny for tossing Tony out earlier.

Abby was sure it had given him enough time to get down to the lockup before Ziva and McGee. And if she had timed it right, that meant he should have arrived at the end of her phone call to Charlene.

The elevator dinged and Abby wasn't surprised in the least when it was Charlene who stepped off, her eyes searching out Abby and giving the scientist a big thumbs-up. Abby grinned and waved, watching one of the milling agents swoop in and take Charlene off to get a statement—one that would be missing a key piece of information.

She turned back to the computer screen on Tim's desk, wishing the camera in the lockup was aimed at more than just rows and rows of boxes and boxes of evidence. _That _would be fixed as soon as this was over, even if she had to do the wiring herself.

But she had nothing else to do now, so Abby just stared at the boxes, still trying not to think about the last time they'd had intruders in the building. She tossed a prayer heavenward, trying to stay in safe mental territory, even though she knew Tony was downstairs in a very _unsafe_ place.

And he was hurt.

And sick.

But still DiNozzo—still one hundred percent rock.

She said another round of mental prayers to every god she could think of, and then she directed her thoughts to Tony, picturing his handsome smiling face to make sure he got the message.

_Last time we had a hostage crisis here, Gibbs got shot. _

_Don't you dare get shot, DiNozzo. _


	19. Chapter 19

Palmer reached out with a trembling hand and tapped in the key code to the evidence cage, wondering how he was going to get Jansen off the Navy Yard without getting caught, getting killed, or getting someone else killed.

And then he wondered if Jansen would just shoot him as soon as the money was in his hands.

"Drop the weapon, Jansen."

Jimmy heard Tony's voice and thought he was imagining things.

Or dreaming.

Or dead.

But the sudden arm across his throat and the gun jammed against his temple seemed quite real.

"Move an inch and I'll shoot him in the damned head."

Jimmy wondered what his head had done to deserve to be called "damned."

And then he wondered if he was losing it.

And how his legs could go weak with relief while someone threatened to shoot him.

And then he realized this was what it meant to trust someone with your life.

Palmer wondered if this was how Tony felt about Gibbs—and he almost hoped not. Jimmy couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have that security and then have it ripped away so suddenly.

But Jimmy knew Tony would get him out of this. Perhaps not unscathed, he thought, feeling the blood from Jansen's backhand dripping down his chin, but whatever. Bleeding meant still alive, and that would be fine with him. He saw a flash of rage in Tony's eyes as he noticed the blood, and Jimmy wondered if Jansen would be unscathed when this was over.

He doubted it.

Tony didn't move—which was good, because Jimmy wasn't really in the mood to see if Jansen was the kind of guy who kept his promises—but the agent kept the gun trained on the pair, even though Palmer was being forced to do his best impersonation of a human shield.

Jimmy realized too what a scary thing it was to be looking down the barrel of a gun held in DiNozzo's extremely capable hands. If Jimmy were a bad guy, he'd totally give up right now.

"Put your gun down and get me my money," Jansen said, tightening his arm across Jimmy's throat.

_What I am going to do? Yell you to death?_ Jimmy thought. _And you're going to be really sorry if I black out and you lose your bodyguard. Maybe "crazy, not stupid" was the wrong category for you, buddy. _

"How about you put the gun down and we'll talk about your money," Tony returned, his voice as steady as his hands.

If Jimmy didn't know that Tony was half-drowning in his own lungs and probably ready to puke or pass out, he would never guess it from looking at the agent. DiNozzo had even ditched the bandage on his injured hand—not surprising since Tony disliked showing weakness as much as his former boss—and Jimmy wouldn't even have seen the neat row of stitches mending the torn flesh if he hadn't been looking for it.

It was funny, if someone had asked Palmer two months ago whom he would want standing there, trying to save his life, Jimmy probably would have said Gibbs. But now, actually standing here with a gun to his head, Jimmy was infinitely grateful that it was Tony.

"If I put it down, what's to stop you from shooting me?" Jansen said, and Jimmy could hear the desperation starting to creep into his voice.

_I really need to come up with a plan_, Jimmy thought, _before this nutbag really does shoot me. _

"That's my friend you're hiding behind," Tony said, "and I'd really rather not shoot through him, you know?"

_Hmmmmm. Well, it's not a good plan. But it's a plan. _

"The good guys aren't supposed to shoot the good guys," Tony continued, patiently.

"Jack shot Harry in 'Speed'," Jimmy said, wincing again as the arm got tighter across his neck.

"Shut up, Palmer," Tony said calmly. "No one's getting shot today. Listen, Jansen, even if you make it out of this room, there's gonna be a hundred agents including an FBI hostage-rescue team waiting for you in the hall. The only way you leave this building _not_ in a body bag is by putting that gun down right now."

Jimmy could feel Jansen's breathing picking up, the soft puffs against his ear coming faster and harsher. The gun at his temple dug in a little harder, and Jimmy realized that Tony saw the change, too, because the agent's eyes narrowed and his grip on his own weapon tightened fractionally.

"You don't have to die today, Jansen," Tony said, his tone still calm, his breathing nice and even—though Palmer had no idea how. Jimmy was trying to calm his racing heart, trying not to gasp in stark terror—and there was nothing wrong with his lungs. He had no clue how Tony had yet to break a sweat despite the fever Jimmy knew he had. Jimmy could blame the wetness on his chin on blood, but the coldness running down his back was sweat, pure and simple. He was terrified.

"You don't have to die today," Tony repeated.

"Shut up!" Jansen yelled. The gun was shaking in his hand, and Jimmy was sure it was going to go off at any second, whether Jansen meant to pull the trigger or not. "Would you just shut up and let me think!"

Jimmy's heart thumped harder in his chest, and he met Tony's eyes, realizing he was extra grateful it was DiNozzo and not Gibbs here today.

Gibbs would never get the movie reference.

"Pop quiz, hotshot," Jimmy said, trying to smile despite his fear.

Tony cocked his head slightly, studying Palmer's bleeding face.

Jimmy nodded.

"What are you talking about?" Jansen said, giving Jimmy a rough shake. "Do you _want_ to get shot?"

Jimmy shrugged.

Tony fired.

Palmer dropped to the ground with a yelp as a line of fire seared across his outer thigh. Part of him wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it, at the comical shock on Jansen's face as Tony shot the hostage. Part of him wanted to hug Tony for getting the message, for having the balls to follow his lead.

The rest of him was busy realizing that there were still two armed men in the cage and this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

By the time Jimmy hit the floor and had clamped a hand over his superficial wound, both men had fired. Jansen's first round hit Tony low in his left side. Tony's caught Jansen in the chest. Tony fired again—so quickly the sound mingled with Jansen's second shot—and drilled a hole through the dirtbag's forehead just as Jansen's round hit the agent dead-center in the chest.

Jansen dropped dead to the floor, and Tony was thrown back into the shelves holding the boxes of evidence, his harsh gasps suddenly the only sound in the lockup.

Jimmy watched in stunned silence as Tony bent forward, his hands on his knees as he struggled to pull in breath after pained breath. Palmer could see the vest under the agent's shirt, but he knew the force of those bullets slamming into Kevlar had to hurt like hell.

He wanted to stand up and go to Tony, but Jimmy knew he'd puke if he tried to move. It wasn't the pain—Tony was a hell of a marksman and had barely grazed him, just enough to get a reaction out of him—it was the sudden realization of how close he had come to dying, how close _both_ of them had come to dying. The adrenaline whooshed out of him like a popped balloon and Jimmy was suddenly shaking too hard to get up.

Tony was still bent double, his arms now wrapped around his body, but as soon as he caught his breath enough to speak, he looked up at Jimmy and asked, "You okay, Gremlin?"

Jimmy laughed shakily, his emotions slamming up and down like a jackhammer. "You're asking me if I'm okay?"

The agent nodded, straightening fractionally and stopping with a hiss of pain. "Well, yeah, Palmer. I just shot you."

Looking down at the redness on his hand, Jimmy realized that while he saw a lot of blood in his line of work, he very rarely saw his own. He frowned at Tony. "Yeah, you did. That wasn't very nice."

Tony raised an eyebrow, easing himself slightly more toward upright. "You told me to."

Palmer sighed. "Yeah, I did. I guess you're forgiven."

Tony laughed. And then he coughed. And then he dropped to his knees.

"Tony?" Jimmy ignored the nausea that apparently came with almost dying, and he wiped his bloody hand on his bloody scrubs and managed to stand up and half-stagger over to where his friend was kneeling. Jimmy had never heard the sound emanating from low in Tony's throat, but the closer he got, the more convinced he became that it was the agent trying not to scream. "Let's get this off you," Palmer said, sinking gratefully to still-shaking knees and starting to work the buttons on Tony's shirt.

Jimmy realized Tony's breathing was getting worse instead of better, and he willed his trembling fingers to start cooperating and move faster. He pulled the shirt off and went to work on the vest, making quicker progress with the thick Velcro straps than with the small buttons. Jimmy flinched at the sight of the bullet lodged in the chest plate of the vest, and he tossed it aside, trying not to think about the damage that projectile would have done if not for the Kevlar that had stopped it.

He brought his hands up to check for broken ribs just as Tony started to wheeze, his eyes going slightly panicked for the first time since stepping from his hiding place behind a row of boxes.

"It's going to be okay," Jimmy reassured, wincing at the bruise forming over Tony's sternum.

Palmer stopped suddenly, frowning at the blood on his left hand. He looked down, not really needing the visual to know it was his own right thigh that was bleeding sluggishly.

It burned like wildfire.

But this wasn't his blood.

Jimmy looked back at the agent and finally saw the neat hole in Tony's left side, just above his belt. He realized the bullet had caught him just under the vest, and Palmer slid his hand around to Tony's back, his fingers easily finding the bleeding exit wound.

Jimmy grabbed Tony's arm and eased him down onto the floor between the shelving and the chain-link front of the cage, watching the agent's eyelids flutter with pain and wondering how he wasn't screaming his head off. Jimmy knew his own wound was just a graze—he didn't want to try to imagine what it felt like to have a bullet tear through his body.

"I'm fine, Gremlin," Tony said, between a wheeze and a gasp.

"Sorry, Dr. DiNozzo, but I'm going to have to disagree with your consult," Palmer said, grabbing Tony's shirt and stuffing it under his back to put pressure on the exit wound.

DiNozzo grunted softly as Jimmy wedged the material between the floor and his body. "Your bedside manner sucks, Palmer," he muttered grumpily.

"Yeah? Then you're really going to hate this," Jimmy said, wincing as he put his hand on Tony's belly and ignored the sharp yelp as he pushed down, hard. "I'm sorry. I am. But you don't get to bleed to death on my watch. Dr. Mallard would kill me."

"Ducky's not that scary," Tony said, his voice suddenly soft.

Jimmy snorted even though he was seriously worried. The bullet had punched through Tony's abdominal oblique, just above his left hip, and gouged through to exit his lower latissimus dorsi. Palmer knew the path wasn't close enough to center mass to have tagged a kidney, but damage to the large intestine was a distinct possibility.

"I bet you don't even think Gibbs is scary," Jimmy said, trying to keep Tony awake and talking.

"Not anymore," Tony said, trying to smile and failing miserably. "He's too far away to be scary now."

Jimmy felt his throat go tight as he shoved down harder against the wound and watched Tony's eyes roll back in his head for a moment before coming back to rest on his bruised face.

"You're bleeding, Gremlin."

Jimmy looked down at his hands, pressed desperately against Tony's bloody abdomen. "So are you, DiNozzo."

"Don't bleed on me, Palmer," Tony said, blinking tiredly. " 'S gross."

Palmer turned his head and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Better?"

"Mmmmm," Tony managed, the agreement sounding more like a moan.

"This is the FBI!"

Jimmy about jumped through his skin at the barked words from outside the door. "About damned time," he muttered, drawing a tiny smile from Tony. But the agent's eyes were glazed and his breathing was all wrong. Palmer tried to keep the panic out of his voice as he shouted, "Jansen's dead, and I need help in here."

"Right," came the agent's voice. There was a pause.

"The hell are they doing?" Jimmy asked, his mind busy trying to calculate how much blood was saturating the shirt wedged under Tony's back.

"The door, Jimmy," Tony whispered, faint amusement momentarily replacing the pain in his eyes.

"Oh."

Palmer took Tony's left hand and placed it over the wound. "Push down, Tony," Jimmy said. He watched Tony blink at him in confusion, and he grabbed the agent's right hand and put it on top of his left, pushing down on both with his own bloody hands. "Push down hard. I'll be right back."

"Uhhhnnn," Tony groaned as Jimmy released the pressure and ran out of the cage.

He shoved aside the heavy crates keeping the main door shut, wincing not at the strain in his grazed thigh but at the sight of Tony's right hand flopping down to rest on the floor.

The agent's chest rose and fell slowly—too slowly for Jimmy's liking. He moved the last crate and ran back to the lockup, quickly entering the key code again and moving inside to drop to his knees at Tony's side, murmuring an apology as he resumed the painful, life-saving pressure on Tony's bleeding belly.

"Unlock the door, sir!" an agent called, making Jimmy realize he'd let the door to the lockup swing shut as the FBI team swarmed into the big room.

He looked down at his sodden hands and shook his head, putting an authority behind his words he didn't know he possessed.

"Break the damned thing down!"

Apparently, Palmer did have it in him.

They broke down the door.


	20. Chapter 20

_Tony couldn't open his eyes, he couldn't move, and he was only vaguely sure he was breathing. _

_But he knew he was still alive. _

_Being dead couldn't possibly hurt like this. _

_He wanted to turn onto his side, to curl up in a miserable little ball, but the truck parked on his chest was making that impossible. _

_He also wanted to scream, but he knew he didn't have the breath. He wasn't aware that he had moaned—whether in pain, or frustration, or both—until he felt a hand on his, squeezing. The grip was firm but gentle._

_And unfamiliar, Tony realized, trying to force his eyes open. _

_But he was so tired… _

_So he just lay there, feeling a thumb stroking steadily across his knuckles as he floated in a drugged haze and tried to figure out who this mystery visitor was. He had spent enough time barely conscious lately to distinguish among the touches of his teammates. _

_The women held his hand with equal gentleness—but bouncy, no doubt overly caffeinated Abby always drew shapes in his palm or traced the veins from his fingers all the way up his wrist. McGee always rested his hand on top of Tony's, apparently out of some manlike fear of seeming girly. Ducky was unabashed in his hand-holding, firmly sandwiching the agent's fingers between warm, soft palms, often tapping a thumb against Tony's wrist in time with the rhythms of his lengthy stories. _

_But the grip on his hand now was none of those. It was just _there_. _

_And so unfamiliar… _

_Tony felt a jolt of pure panic, wondering if someone had called his father. He vaguely remembered telling someone—Abby, perhaps?—not to, but that might have been imagined, or dreamed, or simply wished amid the fevers and the coughing and the pain. He hadn't seen his father in years. The last thing he wanted was to come face to face with the man while lying flat on his back, too weak to move. _

_But that thumb just kept gliding over his knuckles, firm and gentle and steady. _

_It was soothing. _

_Calming. _

_He felt a weight lift off his chest—a metaphorical one, though, because breathing was still a painful struggle. _

_This was not his father's hand. _

_This hand bore calluses, the sure sign of hard work, of manual labor—things with which Anthony DiNozzo Senior was not well-acquainted. _

_Tony managed to get his eyes open to slits, more out of shock than anything, but then he squeezed them shut again as a ferocious coughing fit took over his body. He was too weak to fight it—too weak to try _not_ to show his weakness—but unfortunately he was also too exhausted to sit up, or even lean over so he wouldn't choke on his own bodily fluids. _

Drowning in my own phlegm_, he thought, his eyes rolling behind closed lids. _What a freakin' way to go.

_But then there were hands on his shaking body, strong hands maneuvering him upright, a solid body sliding behind his. He leaned forward, spitting into the basin that appeared in front of him, too engaged in clearing the disgusting taste from his mouth to be embarrassed by the arms supporting him. The fit was over then, and he expected to be lowered back onto the bed, so he was surprised when the body stayed behind him until his breathing returned to something more normal. _

_"You wanted a hug, DiNozzo, all you had to do was ask." _

_Tony smiled as he settled back against the pillows, watching Gibbs move back into the chair beside him. They were quiet for a moment while Tony found the control and elevated the head of the bed. Lying flat was more comfortable, but it also felt awkward with his boss sitting a few feet away, watching him as if trying to _see_ his thoughts. But those thoughts were jumbled, and Tony wasn't sure he could have expressed everything he was feeling right then even if Gibbs had asked. _

_Tony suddenly remembered that Gibbs—former Marine Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs; tough-as-nails, no-nonsense Special Agent Gibbs—had been holding his hand only moments before, and he winced as he picked absently at the blanket covering him. _

_Unfortunately, Gibbs saw the flinch and misread it as physical discomfort. _

_"Are you in pain, Tony?" he asked, eyes concerned and voice so gentle it made Tony's insides twist. _

_"I'm okay," he said, nearly wincing again as Gibbs raised an eyebrow at the quiet words. _

_"You almost died," Gibbs countered, his stare intense. _

_"I didn't," Tony said, shrugging carefully. _

_He watched Gibbs bristle, but Tony was surprised when his boss took a breath and let it out slowly, as if trying to calm himself. _

_Suddenly the silence felt as crushing as the pain in his chest, and Tony joked, "You can safely go back to your boat, Boss. I promise not to drop dead on you." He watched Gibbs' glare grow harder, but he couldn't stop his babbling any more than he could understand why his boss was sitting there beside him. "I've had plenty of company, with Abby and Ducky, McGee and—"_

_"Where did you think I've been, Tony?" Gibbs asked. There was no bite in his steady tone—only questions._

_Tony realized he wasn't exactly sure what time it was—or what day, for that matter—thanks to the pain that was all but demanding his full attention. The drugs weren't helping, either, muddling his thoughts and making him question whether Gibbs was actually sitting there beside him._

_But then Gibbs spoke, his message loud and clear—and slightly incredulous. _

_"I was out there finding the bitch who damned near killed you."_

Oh. 

_Tony studied Gibbs' face, and he was with it enough to realize that his boss was looking at him expectantly. But Tony had no idea what the man wanted. _

_"We got her," Gibbs said, still eyeing his agent with concern. "She confessed, and Cassie Yates and I arrested her." _

_Tony nodded, still feeling like he was missing something. _

_"Found out why she did it, too," he said, his tone reminding Tony of the interrogation room, when Gibbs was leading a suspect right into a trap. _

_But still it didn't make sense. _

_And neither did Gibbs' carrying a conversation. _

_Tony wondered again if he was dreaming. _

_"You sure you're okay?" Gibbs asked, leaning forward in the chair. _

_"Yeah," Tony said, nodding. "Are you?" _

_"I'm better, now that I know Hannah Lowell will be locked up for the rest of her miserable life," Gibbs said, obviously watching Tony for his reaction to the name. When Tony didn't speak, Gibbs continued, "But you're scaring the hell out of me, DiNozzo. I talked to the entire team and I know you haven't once asked about the dirtbag who did this to you." _

_Tony thought about that for a moment, realizing it had probably been days since he had opened that letter and that he had probably had semi-coherent conversations with his teammates since then. But he didn't remember them. But he didn't think telling Gibbs just how out of it he had been—and _still was_—was the greatest idea. _

_"The letter wasn't addressed to me," Tony said carefully, trying to gauge Gibbs' reaction to that. "It wasn't personal." _

_Gibbs drew a slow breath, his brow furrowed as he stared at Tony. "Yeah, but you don't want to know why you're lying in a hospital bed with the damned plague, struggling to breathe?" _

_Tony flushed, and he watched Gibbs' eyes soften as he saw the embarrassment on his agent's pale face. And suddenly, Tony understood what Gibbs wanted from him. _

_"I didn't ask about the dirtbag because I wasn't worried about it, Gibbs. You're the best investigator I've ever met, and I heard you when you told me not to die." Tony shrugged, but his tone was serious. "I knew you would take care of it for me, Boss." _

_Gibbs' lips twitched upward in a faint smile, and he finally leaned back in his chair, settling in as if he expected to be there a while. _

_Tony smiled something close to his usual bright grin, feeling a rush of gratitude that Gibbs was going to stay with him. He appreciated the team's company, but there was something about Gibbs' presence that was soothing in a way he couldn't quite explain. He wiggled down slightly, letting his aching body relax as he lay there, blinking sleepily. _

_"I bet it's a hell of a story," Tony said, yawning and closing his eyes. "I kind of want to make sure I'm awake enough to remember it when you tell me." _

_Gibbs reached for a crossword puzzle book someone had abandoned on the tray beside the bed. "I'll give you a full SitRep whenever you're ready," he said, scratching in an answer. "Get some sleep, Tony. You need to get back to work before Kate and McGee drive me nuts." _

* * *

><p>It hurt.<p>

Holy _hell_, it hurt.

Every breath was like a baseball bat to the chest. It felt like someone had drilled a hole in his side—and left the tearing, burning bit inside him.

He wanted to move, to get off whatever was stabbing him in the back, and then he realized it was an exit wound. Which meant the agony in his belly was an entrance wound.

Because he got shot.

Abby was going to kill him.

As he lay there, struggling to breathe despite the elephant on his chest and the fire in his side, he figured he just might let her.

He looked around the empty room, the memory of Gibbs sitting with him after his bout with the plague oddly fresh in his mind, and he realized he was the only one in the room—no nurse checking in on him, no visitor asleep in the chair beside him, not even a patient in the other bed near the door.

The room was dark, with no light peeking around the closed blinds at the window, just as it had been that night with Gibbs, and Tony figured his team was probably just heeding visiting hours and had gone home for the night.

A sad smile tugged at his lips as another memory from that night slipped through his mind.

A nurse had tried to kick Gibbs out of the room with a reminder about the rules on visiting hours. But Gibbs—a man with an iron-clad set of his own rules and little regard for anyone else's—had just smiled and said, "You want me to stay—unless you plan on sitting here all night." The nurse's confusion was plain even to Tony, who was faking sleep but listening intently. Gibbs answered her silent question. "He won't try to escape if I'm here."

Tony's breath caught—hard—and he tried to tell himself it was just the pain of that bullet slamming into his vest and not the aching sense of loss that came with the memories of his absent mentor. He wondered if Gibbs would be here with him now, if he hadn't run off to some Mexican shore.

And then he rolled his eyes.

Gibbs would never have missed Palmer's clue, would never have let Tony out of his sight long enough for him to hide out in the lockup in his dumbass attempt to save Jimmy.

Jimmy.

Shit.

Tony realized he had no idea where the Gremlin was, or how he was doing after being kidnapped and shot.

He remembered Jimmy saying he was "fine" when they were in the ambulance together, but Tony wasn't entirely sure that was accurate. He had been trying to only graze Palmer, but shooting someone carefully didn't exactly mean that person would be fine afterwards. And being ordered around at gunpoint wasn't exactly good for anyone's mental wellbeing.

Tony also remembered the confusion on the face of the doctor who had come to give him the results of his abdominal CT—no surgery needed since the bullet hadn't penetrated the peritoneum, whatever that was—and all the agent had wanted to know was how the guy with the leg wound was doing.

Upon hearing that Palmer was getting some stitches in the next room for the superficial wound to his thigh, Tony had given in to the exhaustion that had been nagging at him the past few days and zoned out, ignoring the rest of his own treatment. He tuned out the doctors and nurses, floating in a mercifully pain-free haze, thanks to the morphine he was quite certain he had refused—more than once.

He looked down at the IV in the back of his right hand and wondered why the magical chemicals running through his veins weren't doing anything to dull the unrelenting pain in his side. His eyes caught the bandage that had reappeared over the slice on his left hand—which didn't hurt at all—and he realized maybe those drugs _were_ doing something. He shivered lightly, trying to imagine the pain he'd be in without them.

There was a whisper of movement outside the room, and Tony swallowed the first word that came to his mind—"Boss?"—and he felt his cheeks go red with embarrassment even though he hadn't spoken out loud. Tony wasn't dying, and he doubted Gibbs would come back for him even if he were. The man obviously wanted nothing to do with them, considering he hadn't left even a phone number for emergencies.

"Hey, there."

Tony looked up at the male voice and watched the nurse—built like a linebacker but with a lot less bloodlust in his eyes—walk into the room.

"How ya feeling, man?" he asked, having to nudge the chair aside to squeeze in next to the monitoring equipment beside the bed.

Tony ignored the pain, in his chest and his injured side, and lifted a shoulder. "Tired."

The nurse, whose ID badge read Roger Timmons, turned his gaze from the heart monitor to Tony's pale face. "And the pain?" he asked, studying his patient with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm fine."

"Mmhmm." Roger turned and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Chart says you got shot."

Tony didn't respond. He was hurting—but Roger reminded him of his college football teammates, and it seemed wrong to complain.

"I'm just doing my job, man," Roger said, uncrossing his arms and dropping into the empty chair. "Help me out? Scale of one to ten, how bad is it?"

Tony turned appraising eyes on Roger's relaxed posture, feeling instantly less awkward without the big man towering over him as he lay there in nothing but a hospital gown. He had a feeling the move was intentional.

"That scale makes no sense," Tony said. "It's too arbitrary. I mean, if no one ever hits you with a truck and says, 'There, that's a seven,' how are you supposed to give an accurate estimate?"

Roger smiled, nodding in amused agreement. "And one man's two is another man's twelve. I hear you," he said. The smile faded. "But if you think getting hit by a truck is a seven, I don't even want to know how bad you're hurting right now. I'll get you something for the pain."

He stood and moved toward the door, turning back with a level of perception in his eyes that made Tony want to squirm.

"And I won't tell anyone but your chart that you accepted it."

The man was gone before Tony could say anything, and he was back before Tony could even come up with anything _to_ say. But he seemed to sense Tony's unease and slipped a needle into a port without a word, giving his patient a simple nod as he quietly left the room.

Tony closed his eyes, letting himself relax without ever having realized how tense he was, and he let the medication work its magic, easing the stabbing in his side and the ache in his chest. He was infinitely grateful the coughing seemed to have subsided; he couldn't even begin to imagine the agony that hacking up a lung right now would bring.

The thoughts of coughing had him thinking of Gibbs again, though, and Tony felt an entirely different kind of pain take up residence in his chest. Powerful painkillers had a way of melting his masks, and Tony for once simply let himself acknowledge—albeit silently—just how much he missed his boss, how much he wanted things to go back to normal. And hell, while he was wishing for things that could never be, he added Kate to the list of people he would do anything to bring back.

Tony turned his eyes from the ceiling to the empty chair beside him, heaving a sigh torn straight from the bottom of his soul.

And then he gasped, his hand landing on his wounded side as pain rocked through him like an aftershock from the bullet. He could feel the thick gauze taped to his belly through the thin blanket and even thinner gown, and suddenly he wanted to be anywhere but there in the hospital. He could practically see Gibbs sitting there beside him, post-plague, and he could practically hear Kate crying on Ducky's shoulder just outside of isolation.

But there was no one in the room with him.

And Tony had never felt so alone.

He closed his eyes, trying to give in to the exhaustion and the drugs and just sleep.

But apparently his memory felt like torturing him, replaying that night in the Indiana hotel bathroom until Tony had to open his eyes to stop the images.

Voices drifted in from the hall, and Tony concentrated on the words, trying to focus on anything but the stark, painful emptiness that memory brought.

"He was awake and in a lot of pain," came Roger's voice, "but I dosed him pretty good and he'll probably be asleep for a while. Why don't you go downstairs and get something to eat?"

"I don't know," Jimmy said. "I made everyone else go home and I don't want him to think he's completely alone here."

"Pretty nice of you to do for a guy who shot you, Jimmy."

There was humor in the nurse's voice, and Tony wasn't expecting the serious, reverent tone that came in reply.

"He saved my life, Rog. Someone would be doing an autopsy on me right now if it weren't for Tony," Palmer said, sighing heavily. "And I don't know how to thank him for that, you know? 'Thank you for saving my life' just sounds so … lame."

There was a short silence, and then Roger said, "Don't worry about it, Jimmy. I'm sure you'll think of something." A pause. "Really, though, he's going to be out for a while, and I've got a break scheduled. Let's go get something to eat."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks," Jimmy said, and Tony heard their footsteps trailing off down the hall, their voices drifting back but the words unintelligible.

Tony felt himself trembling lightly, unable to wrap his head around the sheer gratitude in Jimmy's words. His mind was racing and he knew he wouldn't be able to get to sleep, no matter how many chemicals were floating through his bloodstream. He wasn't good at heart-to-hearts, and he was certain he wouldn't be able to give Jimmy what the shaken young assistant needed to hear. Palmer needed him as he had been in the lockup, staring unflinchingly down the barrel of a gun—not lying weak and vulnerable in a hospital bed, wondering if his own mentor would have come to his funeral had that bullet hit anything vital.

Tony took a deep breath and tossed the blanket aside, not bothering to think about the pain that would come with sitting up.

He didn't care.

He knew he would talk to Palmer about what had happened. Eventually.

But right now, there was only one thing on Tony's mind. And that was getting out of there.

It was true that he had never felt so alone, but it was also true that he had never wanted so badly to be alone. There was only one place he wanted to be right then.

And he didn't care how much it would hurt to go there.


	21. Chapter 21

Tony managed to sit up without screaming.

Barely.

The pain was unreal. It was all-encompassing and mind-numbing and left him shaking, gasping for every breath as he used his arms to crawl his way up the rail, towing himself upright inch by agonizing inch.

But he wasn't about to let the pain stop him.

He sat there, legs dangling over the side of the hospital bed, and he simply breathed. He wasn't sure he was capable of anything else, thanks to the pain tearing through his belly.

But then it eased.

As he knew it would.

Tony was no stranger to pain, and he had once lain on a football field, clutching a ruined knee and waiting in agony for the merciful moment when the pain would subside—because it had to ease at some point. Or maybe the mind just learned to deal with it better as time went on. He didn't care which—as long as he could concentrate on moving instead focusing solely on breathing without screaming.

He looked down at the IV in the back of his hand and carefully pulled the needle out, making sure to remove it by easing it out straight so it didn't break. But his hands were shaking and the process wasn't as smooth as he planned, but the slight sting was welcome because it was something to think about other than the waves of nausea rolling over him like the breaking tide.

But his body soon became acclimated to being upright, and the feeling subsided enough for him to stand, even if his legs were trembling beneath him. He looked around for the obligatory bag holding the things he had been brought in with, and he winced, realizing no one would have saved the blood-soaked shirt Jimmy had used to put pressure on his wound.

He almost gave up then, knowing there was no way he could walk out of a hospital wearing one of their hideous gowns, but then he spotted a familiar bag on the floor. Tony silently thanked whomever had grabbed his go-bag from the trunk of his car, likely in anticipation of his being released the next day, and he nudged it with his foot closer to the bed. He wasn't dumb enough to try to pick it up, but he needed to move away from the door.

He didn't want Roger walking by and seeing his patient about to escape. Tony figured he could outrun the big guy on a good day. But with a bullet wound and aching lungs? Not so much.

He knew bending down to grab the jeans and button-down shirt was going to be excruciating, so he did it quickly and kept his mouth clamped shut to keep from moaning when the pain stabbed through him as he knew it would. He straightened, put his hand on the bed to steady himself, and then reached back with a wince to untie the ugly gown. He stepped into his pants, trying to get this over quickly—before he had time to really process how much it goddamn _hurt_—but he had to stop once he got them buttoned, his bare chest heaving with the effort of simply getting half-dressed.

Even though he told himself not to, he couldn't help looking down to survey the damage. He had a massive bruise splattered dead-center over his chest, and he didn't even let himself think about how dead he would be if he hadn't grabbed that vest before running down to the evidence lockup. His eyes moved down to the gauze taped to his belly, the area beneath slightly swollen with bruising peeking out around the edges of the bandage. He figured his back was in the same shape as his fingers found a similar-size bandage there.

And then he ignored the wounds and concentrated on getting his shirt on and buttoned correctly. He hoped no one would stop him on his way out, knew escape was much more likely now that he was dressed normally, and could only hope that no one who might see him leaving the room would realize he was the patient who was supposed to be resting inside.

He figured his badge would take care of anyone else.

Tony found that badge, and his watch, wallet and cell phone, in the top drawer of the small dresser, and he took everything but the phone, not wanting McGee and his magic fingers to find him. He knew the team would try to drag him back to the hospital, but it was unnecessary. The doctor in the ER had told him they were admitting him only for observation and that he would be healed up in no time if he took proper care of the wound. He planned on doing just that, and also making all of his follow-up appointments as scheduled. Tony was stubborn as all hell—but he wasn't a moron.

He thought briefly about scribbling a note to his team not to worry about him, but he couldn't find a pen or paper. No one had been sitting at his bedside with a crossword puzzle book this time.

He didn't waste time or energy lurking around the door and instead stepped confidently out into the hall, deserted thanks to the early hour—nearly 0500, according to his watch. He carefully kept his left arm away from his body even though he wanted to press it against his injured side, and he even gave the nurse at the station a good imitation of his usual charming smile, hoping to distract the pretty young woman enough to make her forget that it was odd for nonmedical personnel to be walking the halls this early in the morning.

She smiled back, her eyes brightening as they landed on his handsome face.

Tony wanted to puke.

But it wasn't her fault.

So he kept walking, glad the elevator doors opened immediately, and he stepped inside, breathing a sigh of relief as it took him down to the lobby. He kicked himself for forgetting to call a cab and resigned himself to walking the short distance to the Metro station a couple of blocks away.

Even that seemed like a million miles, though, considering the searing pain in his side that was getting worse with every step. But Tony just nodded to the security guard as he exited the hospital, determined to get to the station and grab a seat on what would likely be a sparsely populated early morning train back to the District. From there he could get a cab to his final destination.

Collapsing onto the bench outside the hospital was enticing, but he knew he had to keep moving. He wondered if this desperate need to _run_ was what the dirtbags he chased for a living felt when his team was on the hunt.

He made it to the station just in time to catch the first train out, and he had just eased himself gratefully into a seat when it started to move, the slight rocking of the car and the stretching of damaged muscle involved in sitting reawakening his nausea. He wrapped his arm around his side, supporting the injured area while trying not to put too much pressure on the wounds, and simply breathed through the pain and dizziness. He could feel the path the bullet had gouged through his body as if it were a steel rod, white-hot and embedded inside him, and a small part of him—the part of his brain that wasn't awash in agony—wondered if he would be able to walk to a cab.

But he would.

Because he had to, because there was no one to help him, and most importantly, because giving in to the pain was unacceptable.

Tony opened his eyes to see where he was—and how close he was to the station nearest his destination—and he found an elderly man watching him with concern.

"Are you all right, son?"

Tony allowed the flinch—because he knew the man would misinterpret it as physical pain. "I'm fine, sir," he said, trying not to gag on that last part, the word reminding him of his father. But Tony never let bad memories preclude manners.

The man nodded slowly, his eyes sharp and appraising. "Bullet wound?"

Tony raised an eyebrow, mystified for a moment before following the man's eyes downward. He realized he had clipped his badge on the pocket of his jeans out of habit instead of shoving it inside, and he also still had the hospital bracelet around his wrist because his knife hadn't been in the bag. He felt a little flash of panic, hoping the knife—a gift from Gibbs—wasn't lost. Tony wasn't a big fan of rules in general, but he really liked Rule 9, not only because it had gotten him out of several jams but because it gave him an excuse to carry his most cherished possession with him at all times.

Still, it was interesting that the man had made the leap from badge and bracelet to bullet wound.

"I was Metro PD for thirty-five years. Had a little incident my second week on the job," the man said, lifting his shirt and showing a puckered old scar. "I know exactly how bad getting gut-shot hurts."

He watched Tony's eyes flick to the doors as the train slid to a stop, and the man stood, offering his arm like a father to a bride. "Come on, kid. I'll walk you home. My name's Charlie."

Tony just stared, shocked beyond words and feeling overwhelmed by this stranger's kindness.

"Ah, wait," Charlie said, turning to face Tony and extending both hands. "This'll hurt you less. Be easier on the belly."

Tony looked up into the man's kind eyes and decided to take the help being offered. He was tired and in pain, and he still had a long way to go, so he reached out and took Charlie's weathered hands, extremely grateful he could use the muscles in his arms to pull himself up rather than put the strain on his injured abdomen. Charlie offered his left arm, letting the agent decide how much help he needed to make it off the train and also allowing Tony to tuck his own left arm against his throbbing side.

They stepped around a woman talking on a cell phone, and Tony suddenly realized he couldn't use his to call a cab since he had left it at the hospital. He turned to Charlie, smiling faintly despite his pain when he saw the phone in the retired cop's hand. Tony gave him a quizzical look as he made the quick phone call requesting a cab at their current station.

Charlie clicked the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket. "What?" he asked, smiling and leading Tony to a bench to wait. "You're in no shape to drive even if you did have a car around here—which you don't, because you would have headed the other way when we got off the train."

"How did you know I don't live around here?" Tony asked.

Charlie grinned back at him. "You bought a ticket at the vending machine and had to look at a map before getting on the train."

"Maybe I usually drive," Tony said, leaning heavily on Charlie but enjoying the conversation.

"Maybe," Charlie said, "but you would have stopped me before I told the dispatcher _where_ I needed the cab."

"Oh. Yeah, good point," Tony said, nodding. He glanced at Charlie. "Detective?" he ventured, eyeing the bench and not looking forward to bending his aching body down onto it.

"Yes, siree," Charlie said, grinning and holding out his hands again, his eyes patient as he watched Tony reluctantly take them and allow himself to be lowered into a sitting position. Charlie was probably in his seventies, but he certainly wasn't frail, and Tony was glad for the strength in the man's hands as they eased him onto the bench.

Tony closed his eyes and barely kept himself from gasping in pain as he sat, the bench hard against the wound in his back.

Charlie settled in beside him, his knee bumping gently against Tony's. "Go on," he said, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile. "Say it. I won't be offended."

Ignoring the fire in his side to focus on the conversation, Tony asked, "Say what?"

Charlie gave a chuckle. "Oh, I don't know, something like, 'Shit that hurts,' maybe?"

Tony found a tired grin and repeated, "Shit that hurts."

"Attaboy," Charlie said, his eyes scanning the light traffic on the street and fortunately missing Tony's flinch.

But Tony just added that painful reminder of Gibbs' rare words of praise to the pile of agony he was buried in and asked, "So what's it like, being retired?"

"Boring," Charlie answered immediately, drawing another smile from Tony. "My lovely wife died about a year ago, and the kids are all grown up with their own busy lives, their own busy kids. My youngest grandson died in a car accident a few months back, hit by a drunk driver."

"I'm sorry," Tony said sincerely, feeling ashamed of being consumed by his own physical pain. At least his body would heal from the traumas inflicted on him. Charlie's wounds—like Gibbs', Tony realized—would leave much more damage than physical scars.

"Thank you," Charlie said. He looked up into the slowly brightening sky and smiled. "I'm taking a trip with a friend of mine from the force next week, though. Gotta enjoy life while you still got it to live, you know?"

Tony nodded, finding himself wondering if Gibbs was enjoying his new life in Mexico. He felt another jolt of shame for judging his boss for running away from pain; Tony knew it made him a complete hypocrite, considering how many of his own moves had been attempts at escape.

"Where are you going?"

"Italy," Charlie answered, his smile growing wider.

"_Buon viaggio_," Tony said. He saw Charlie raise an eyebrow, and Tony shook his head, realizing he hadn't introduced himself. "I'm sorry, I'm Anthony DiNozzo," he said, reaching out to shake hands.

"Charlie Wells. And you're also bleeding, Anthony." The old man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and before the agent could protest had it pressed against the back of Tony's right hand, bleeding lightly from where he had pulled the IV needle out with his less-than-steady hands. "I'm guessing you didn't get released from the hospital, huh?"

Tony shook his head slowly. "I'm not running from the cops."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I kinda figured you weren't. Just hate hospitals?" he asked, his eyes sympathetic.

Tony nodded, looking down at the blood on the white cloth in Charlie's hand. He winced. "That's probably not going to come out."

"Keep it," Charlie said with a shrug as he released Tony's hand. "I got plenty more. So _buon viaggio_, that like the Italian version of _bon voyage_?"

"Yep," Tony said. "And I do hope you enjoy your trip. It's a beautiful country."

"I sure will, and I'd love to hear more, but it looks like that's your ride," he said, watching a cab turn the corner. "You got someone on the other end who can give you a hand?"

Tony looked up at Charlie's kind face as the man held out his hands again, ready to pull him to his feet. "I'm headed to a friend's house," Tony said, groaning involuntarily as renewed pain attacked with a vengeance, spiking through his side with such intensity that it made him want to throw up. He twisted slightly as he hunched over, his right hand on his belly and his left on his back, and he felt Charlie take him gently by elbow, more letting him know he was there than anything.

"Thanks, Charlie," Tony managed after a moment, prying his eyes open and starting toward the waiting cab.

The old man stayed close by his side, letting Tony lean on him as they walked through the sparse morning crowd. Charlie lowered him carefully into the car, handed over a card with his name and number, and said, "You ever need anything, Anthony, you give me a call, okay?"

Tony smiled genuinely. "Thank you, Charlie, for everything."

Charlie moved to close the door but stopped, leaning down and looking Tony in the eyes. "Don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it, kid. That badge on your hip means you always have a family. No matter what."

Tony could only nod, the sudden lump in his throat threatening to choke him. Charlie closed the door and tapped the roof, and the driver moved away from the curb.

"Where to, sir?"

Tony thought about Charlie's words and wished with everything in him that they could be true.

But Charlie was wrong.

And Tony was a walking example of what was wrong with his theory—on both sides of the coin, he realized, remembering with a jolt that he himself had done the leaving, dropping all contact with his partner Danny in Baltimore after that whole mess.

But none of that changed Tony's answer to the cabbie's question.

He took a deep breath, ignored the pain that came with it, and recited the address.


	22. Chapter 22

Jimmy returned to Tony's room and frowned hard at the empty bed.

He sighed, mentally formulating the lecture about how patients were supposed to call a nurse if they needed to use the restroom, but then he saw the light was off in there. Jimmy approached the bed, his stomach dropping to the floor when he saw a small smear of blood on the tossed-back sheets. As he moved closer, he nearly slipped in the puddle left by the abandoned IV line, and he told himself not to panic. There could be a good reason for this.

He couldn't think of one—but that didn't mean there wasn't one.

Jimmy turned back into the hall and half-ran down to the nurses' station to find his buddy from med school.

"Hey, Rog? Did they take Tony somewhere? More tests?"

Roger checked a monitor and then looked up at him and sighed. "Nope. He bolted, didn't he?"

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "Why is that your first assumption?" he asked, confused.

"Because I spent five minutes with the guy," Roger said, smiling wryly. "You need to get better at reading people, Jimmy."

Palmer rolled his eyes. "No shit. Can you put out a security alert or something? I'm going to run outside and see if I can find him."

Roger nodded and picked up the phone while Jimmy dashed for the stairs. He didn't want to waste time with the elevator and he was breathing hard by the time he stepped out into the warm morning air outside the hospital. He glanced around and didn't see the AWOL agent, and he pulled out his phone to call Tony's cell, not remembering until the third ring that there had been a phone lying on the dresser upstairs in the empty room.

"Gremlin Bond, my ass," he said, drawing an odd look from a passerby. He didn't care. He just heaved a sigh and stared up into the semi-dark sky. "Where the hell are you, Tony?"

"You lost him already?"

Jimmy turned to find Abby streaking toward him, her parasol bobbing as she clomped directly at him in boots that frankly had him a little frightened. As if he wasn't worried enough about Tony.

"We told you to sit on him, Palmer!" she cried, turning back to include a tired-looking McGee in that. "Did you think we were kidding? Tony hates hospitals. And not just that mild dislike that most normal people have for hospitals. I mean, who _likes_ hospitals? Well, other than doctors and nurses. And radiologists and anesthetists and … you know, those people. But Tony? He _hates_ hospitals. I don't know why but he has this _thing_ with them, like they make his skin crawl. His first year with us, he broke his hand on some idiot suspect's face after said idiot suspect called a rape victim the c-word _to her face_ and said she deserved it, and Tony totally clocked him even before Gibbs could do anything. Though I'm not quite sure if Gibbs would have restrained Tony or hit the guy himself, but that's not the point. The _point_ is that Gibbs had to order Tony at gunpoint, practically, to go to the hospital to get his hand checked out even though we could all see that it was broken. And Tony was all, 'I just need some ice,' and Ducky said—"

"I'm sorry, my dear lad, but ice does not mend broken bones."

Jimmy turned to find Dr. Mallard ambling up to the group, his concern obvious on his face.

"I take it our Anthony has disappeared?"

"This can't keep happening, guys," Abby said, tears glistening in her eyes. "We can't keep losing our leaders like this."

"Oh, fear not, Abby," Ducky said, patting her shoulder. "I imagine Anthony's absence will be a temporary one. Do any of you know where he might have gone? Perhaps to stay with a friend?"

"Or home?" McGee ventured.

"Probably not back to NCIS," Abby said. "He'll know Director Shepard wants to talk to him about disobeying her direct order. Even if it was a dumb order."

Jimmy had a theory, but when none of these people—who probably knew Tony better than he did—voiced it, he kept it to himself. "We can't trace his phone. He left it in the room."

"Are you sure he made it out of the hospital already?" McGee asked.

Palmer hadn't thought of that and he shook his head. "No, I guess he could still be inside."

"Wherever he is," Ducky said, frowning hard, "he is likely in rather severe pain. We need to find him—and quickly. I will go inside and speak with some colleagues to see if anyone has spotted him."

Jimmy nodded absently as the doctor walked away, his thoughts on the pain in Tony's eyes as he had tried to keep the agent from bleeding all over the lockup floor. He turned and found McGee and Abby glaring at him.

"I went to the restroom," Jimmy said, his voice rising with his anxiety. "I came back and saw my friend Roger—"

"You let our poor, injured leader—who has a _gunshot_ wound—escape while you were chatting?" Abby cried, shrugging off the hand McGee tried to restrain her with.

"Roger is Tony's nurse and he said Tony was asleep," Jimmy protested. "He talked me into going to get something to eat and when I came back…"

"It's not your fault, Palmer," McGee said, coming to the rescue, much to Jimmy's relief.

Abby really could be scary.

"Tony would have found a way to leave if that's what he really wanted to do," McGee said. "You know that, Abby."

She huffed a breath. "We should never have listened to the director when she told us to process the scene before coming here."

"She's the director," Jimmy said, trying to make Abby feel better.

"And we never should have listened to _you_ when you told us to wait and come in the morning," she said, turning on him and pointing a black-tipped finger at his face. The spiky cuff on her wrist gleamed under the rising sun, and Jimmy didn't breathe until McGee reached out and lowered her arm.

"He needed to rest," Jimmy said firmly. He had learned a lot about Tony in the past few days, and he knew the agent would have expended all of his energy trying to convince his team that he was fine. Jimmy had only been trying to give him a chance to just _be_ before having to put on a happy face and deal with visitors. "I know you're worried about him—I am, too—but we'll find him."

Abby regarded him with narrowed eyes for a moment before sighing. "Yes, we will. I'm going to call Ziva. That woman is like a bloodhound."

"I thought you didn't like Ziva?" Palmer asked, his mouth once again moving before he could stop it.

"Palmer!" Abby cried, throwing up her hands and making Jimmy take a step away from her dangerous decorations. "The team is in shambles right now. Shambles! I'll make Ziva my brand-new bestest friend if she helps us find Tony. I can't even imagine how much he must be hurting right now."

"Come on," McGee said, taking Abby's arm again. "Ziva's on her way here. We'll call her and have her meet us at Tony's apartment to see if he's there—or see if we can find out where he might have gone. Palmer, you go search the hospital with Ducky, okay?"

Jimmy nodded slowly, watching them walk away. He turned to go back inside but stopped, frowning as he silently debated. To him, it was obvious where Tony went. But he could also see why most people would think it was the last place Tony would go when he was already hurting.

And that, Jimmy realized, was exactly why it was the only place Tony would go.

* * *

><p>Tony could feel his breathing growing more and more labored the closer the cab got to Gibbs' house.<p>

But he wasn't worried. He knew it wasn't a physical problem.

He suddenly wondered why he wanted to come here, and he questioned whether it was to make himself feel better or worse.

The last time Tony had been this edgy, though, the first place he went was to Gibbs' basement. He remembered sitting on the bottom step, bourbon sloshing in the jar in his hand as he tried to shake off the jitters from having been locked in a cell, framed for a murder he couldn't even imagine committing. He had continued bouncing frenetically until Gibbs had pulled him to his feet and shoved a sander into his hand, warning, "Not too hard or I'll headslap you into tomorrow."

The long hours that followed—into the wee hours of the morning and nearly the bottom of the bottle—had rid Tony of his nervous tremors and given him a sense of peace he couldn't have imagined feeling so soon after being caged like an animal and accused of such depravity.

The house came into view, and Tony realized it was that sense of calm that he was so desperately seeking now. His world had been righted more than once in the dusty basement, but Tony gave a small sigh, realizing he had been stupid to think the place would help when it was the person he was missing.

But the car stopped at the curb, and Tony knew he had to get out. The pain was tearing at him like some great black beast trying to claw its way out of his belly, and the sudden lightheadedness he felt was a bit frightening considering he hadn't even stood up yet.

"Do you need some help, sir?" the cabbie asked, obviously remembering Charlie helping Tony into the car.

And Tony remembered the old man's words, telling him it was okay to ask for help if he needed it.

And Tony needed the help.

Even if he despised admitting it.

"If you don't mind," Tony answered, pressing a fist to his mouth at the nausea that came with opening the door and turning to get out. He lowered the hand as the driver came around the car, and Tony was thankful he didn't puke on the man's shoes.

"No problem at all," the cabbie said, helping Tony to his feet. "You need help getting inside?"

Tony shook his head, wondering if Gibbs had locked his door on his way out. He didn't want to have to explain why he was picking the lock if he had to. "Thank you," Tony said, pulling his wallet out and paying the driver.

"Take it easy," the cabbie said, climbing back in and driving away with a wave.

Tony forced one foot in front of the other, limping up the walkway, half bent over in agony. He found the door locked and pulled his picks from his wallet, making record time with it and stumbling inside on shaking legs. He went straight for the couch, collapsing onto it with a hiss of pain and trying to catch his breath. His chest ached, both from the bruise left by the bullet and from his earlier coughing fits, and he realized going down to the basement was a bad idea.

The respiratory infection seemed to be subsiding, but Tony knew the dusty air downstairs would irritate his lungs and likely reawaken the coughing.

He smiled faintly as he remembered his first post-plague visit here. Gibbs had nodded to the couch with a look that dared Tony to disobey and then gone to shut the basement door—a door that Tony knew was never closed. Tony had sat curled up on this same couch, talking about everything and nothing—carefully skirting topics like the plague, his father, how shitty he still felt and how scared he had been—while Gibbs had sat across the room, whittling a chunk of wood into an intricate figurine of an eagle, its wings spread as if in flight.

Tony still had the carving on his desk in his apartment.

Just thinking about how he had merely commented on how cool the little statue was, and how Gibbs had handed it over without a second thought, made Tony's throat go tight with the memory of that simple kindness.

Tony took a deep breath and pulled his feet up onto the couch, turning onto his right side with a moan of sheer agony as he tried to find a position that would ease the brutal pain knifing through his body. He pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and folded it up, tucking it against his belly and curling up around it, seeking support for the wound in his side.

Finally as close to comfortable as he was going to get, he let his tired eyes drift shut and he tried to sleep.

But his bloodhound nose was picking up traces of coffee and sawdust, and whether real or imagined, the scents were evoking memories Tony didn't have the strength to deal with. He cursed his decision to come here, wondering how he could have been so stupid to think being in Gibbs' home would bring anything but pain. Every creak of the house made his eyes pop open in anticipation of his boss coming in from the kitchen, or down the stairs, coffee in hand and headslap at the ready.

Tony felt a sudden twisting inside as he imagined Gibbs lying on this couch, wishing not for some substitute father figure but for his real family—his wife and his daughter, murdered while he was away serving his country. Gibbs was the closest thing to family that Tony had known beyond the age of eight, and he knew how much he had wished and hoped and silently begged for his mother back after she had died in that car accident. Tony couldn't imagine the devastation of losing a wife and a child to a killer.

_Did you ever lay here, Gibbs, hearing these creaks and imagining your daughter bouncing down the stairs? _

_How did you do it? How could you stand to stay here, in this house so starkly empty and yet so filled with memories? _

_How did you make it through the pain, the loss, the grief? _

Tony felt a drop of wetness land on his hand and he realized there were tears leaking down his face. He made no move to wipe them away. It simply hurt too much and he was too exhausted to fight. So he just lay there, silently giving in to the tears and the pain, offering up his suffering soul to an indifferent universe, or god, or whatever.

Time seemed to slow, the ticking seconds endlessly drawing out his agony and ending all hope of relief from the unceasing aching inside him. He tried to make his mind go blank, to ignore the pain blazing through him as if small fires were burning in his wounds, to escape the crushing grief that hurt a thousand times worse.

Finally, just when he thought he might throw his head back and howl out all of his anguish, he fell into a deep sleep, blissful blackness pulling him under a cloak of warm darkness where there was no pain.

No suffering.

No questions.

Nothing but the safety of unconsciousness.


	23. Chapter 23

It took Jimmy far too long to get where he was going, thanks to construction, an accident, and the traffic that began to snarl in the District at ungodly early hours even on normal days. He pulled into the unfamiliar driveway and was surprised by the size of the two-story house—until he remembered that Gibbs had once had a family in this home.

Jimmy made his way up the front walk, hoping like hell the front door would be unlocked. He turned the knob and knew as he pushed open the door that he was right about where Tony was. As he walked through rooms dimmed by the drawn shades on the windows, he knew it was far less certain what shape he would find Tony in.

There was a blanket on the couch, but no agent in sight, so Jimmy walked farther into the house, shrugging off silly fears of Gibbs popping up and shooting him. He wandered toward the back of the first floor, glancing into a half-bath and continuing onward until a sound made him stop short.

It was not a gunshot.

It was a piano.

Jimmy took a small step, trying to identify the piece while wondering where Tony had learned to play so masterfully. He didn't recognize the song—but it was by far the saddest thing he had ever heard.

He took a deep breath to steel himself, shrugging off the equally silly notion that the team knew exactly where to find Tony and was afraid of trapping a wounded bear. Jimmy had no idea how Tony would react to his presence here, but he didn't care. The agent was badly injured and Dr. Mallard was right that he was likely to be in severe pain.

As the last mournful note died away, Jimmy stepped into the doorway of what appeared to be a small bedroom and hoped he wasn't going to startle him.

"Thought I might find you here."

Jimmy got no response from Tony, his arm tucked against his injured side as he sat alone in the semi-dark room. His back was to Jimmy, but he hadn't even flinched at the sudden voice behind him.

"You scared the hell out of a lot of people," Jimmy tried again, softening his tone despite remembering his own panic when he had found the hospital bed empty save for the tinges of blood on the crisp white sheets, the dripping IV dangling from its pole.

Tony didn't turn, but he did lift his right hand, slim fingers gliding over the dusty piano keys to produce notes that were vaguely familiar to Jimmy.

A half-smile erased some of the worry on Jimmy's face as he recognized this piece, Mikhail Glinka's Nocturne in F Minor—also known as _Le Regret_.

"Really, Tony?" Jimmy asked, his voice not judging but questioning. "Do you regret running off without a word and scaring the hell out of all of us?"

The agent lifted a shoulder, and Jimmy heard the sharp intake of breath that came with the slight movement. As a medical student, he could imagine how much pain Tony was in right now, suffering from a gunshot wound without proper analgesic pain control. And that wasn't even his only injury. But Jimmy had to push his medical training aside and focus on his experience with Tony. Jimmy wanted to pull out the syringe he'd brought from the hospital and force the stubborn agent to let him administer the painkiller, but he also knew it would only make the man shut down—or run away.

"Well, you shouldn't," Palmer said, taking a step closer and watching the agent tense up.

Tony hissed in pain and turned his head completely away from Jimmy. The assistant took a step back and leaned against the doorframe, still unnerved to be standing there in Gibbs' house and almost expecting the absent agent to walk through the door at any moment.

But Palmer shoved aside that unfounded fear easily, his concern for Tony much more pressing. The agent hadn't even responded to his words.

"You shouldn't regret leaving the hospital, Tony, if that's what you needed to do," Palmer said, his voice magically coming out much calmer than he felt. "I don't think you ever put yourself first, and it's not healthy to deny yourself as much as you do, to be whatever everyone else needs, or wants, or expects."

Jimmy didn't expect a response. He just hoped Tony was hearing him.

Tony hadn't ordered him out yet, so Jimmy decided to continue. "I just wish you would have said something. If you needed to be alone, if you needed to get the hell out of the hospital, I would have understood that. And I would have helped you." Jimmy paused, noting that Tony hadn't moved but he had started to shake slightly. "I'd like to think that I'm your friend, Tony. And I also happen to be studying to be a doctor. There's no good reason for you to be in this much pain right now."

Tony was quiet for a long moment, and Jimmy didn't know what to do, besides stand there. So he just stood there, silently offering support in the only way Tony would let him.

"I do think of you as a friend, Jimmy," Tony finally said, his voice so low and strained it made Jimmy wince.

He started to turn around and ended up gasping in agony, curling tighter into himself as he fought the excruciating pain. Palmer pulled the syringe from his pocket and approached slowly, making sure Tony saw the needle before he administered the shot. As soon as he did, Tony dropped his head, closing his eyes tightly as he rocked slightly, his breath coming in short, pained puffs.

"It's going to be okay," Jimmy said, sitting on the piano bench and putting a gentle hand on Tony's shoulder. "Give it a minute to work and then we'll move you somewhere more comfortable."

Tony nodded, and Palmer took a moment to look over the agent more carefully. He didn't like the small splotch of blood on the back of Tony's shirt, right over the exit wound from the bullet, but he didn't try to examine his friend any further just yet. Slowly, Tony's breathing evened out and he started to straighten a bit, so Jimmy got up and moved in front of him, wondering if the agent was dreading what was to come as much as he was.

"Can you stand up?" Palmer asked softly, his stomach twisting as Tony raised eyes so full of anguish that Jimmy wasn't convinced his suffering was entirely physical. If only they made morphine for the soul…

"Yeah," Tony said, holding out his hands.

Jimmy tried to smile encouragingly as he helped Tony to his feet, but the agent's low groan of pure misery erased the expression from his face. "I know it hurts," Jimmy said, pulling Tony's right arm over his shoulders, gripping him by the wrist to avoid the bruising on his hand from the IV. "Just keep moving and we'll be there soon."

Tony was quaking like a fault line by the time they made it to the couch, and Jimmy, too, had never been more grateful to sit down in his life. If there were a way for the two of them to share the pain, Jimmy would have done it in a heartbeat. Tony was a good person, a good friend—he had put himself in grave danger with no backup to save Jimmy's life—and he didn't deserve to be hurting like this. It surprised Jimmy that it made him wish Jansen had suffered more before Tony put those rounds through him.

Jimmy noticed that Tony had a fist pressed to his mouth, and he asked, "Do you need to throw up?"

Tony shook his head slightly, slowly, and Jimmy remembered that awful noise the agent had made in the lockup right after getting shot, and he realized Tony was probably trying not to vocalize his anguish. He wanted to tell him to scream, to cry, to punch something, but Jimmy just squeezed Tony's shaking shoulder and got up.

"I'll get you some water," Palmer said, heading to the kitchen and wondering if Gibbs had packed everything up or just left the house as it was the day he fled. He opened a few cabinets, finding glasses and dishes and even an unopened box of crackers, and he felt a twinge of sympathy for Gibbs, wondering how bad things had to be to pick up and move without actually moving just to get away from the pain.

Taking his time filling the glass and puttering around the kitchen, Palmer listened intently for sounds coming from the next room. He heard indistinct shuffling that he guessed was Tony arranging himself into a horizontal position on the couch, and then he heard the very distinct sound of Tony gasping at the pain that movement must have caused. Everything human in him was screaming at him to go comfort his friend, but Jimmy stayed put. Tony was in agony—physically and emotionally, if that mournful piano piece meant anything at all—and Jimmy didn't want to upset him further by embarrassing him.

He waited until he couldn't hear anything but the ticking of a clock somewhere in the house, and he took the water and the crackers and also gathered his courage and patience, and went back into the other room.

Tony was on his side with the blanket folded into a neat square against his belly, his eyelashes dark against his pale cheeks as he rested on the old couch.

Jimmy could tell from his friend's ragged breathing that he wasn't asleep or unconscious—apparently DiNozzos really _didn't_ pass out—so he asked quietly, "How's the pain, Tony?"

He thought for a moment that he wasn't going to get an answer, but Tony finally whispered, "Hurts."

Jimmy almost let it go, knowing even that admission should be considered progress when it came to DiNozzo. But the med student in him made him ask, "Where? And how severe is it?" He paused, waiting for an answer he didn't expect to get. "I need to know, Tony."

"Why?" Tony asked, the exhaustion in his voice blocking out any other emotion that might have been there.

"Because I can give you more medication so it doesn't hurt quite so bad," Jimmy answered, watching his patient's eyelids flutter and then drop closed. He set the water and crackers on the table and took a seat in an armchair. "Do you want another shot?"

The silence stretched, and Jimmy wondered how Tony's mind worked—what he had been through, or even maybe what someone had done to him—to make him not simply say yes, he wanted relief from the blinding pain.

"Sure," Tony finally said, the smile on his face actually unnerving to Jimmy. "Make it tequila this time, would you?"

"Tony, don't."

Even Jimmy was surprised by the force behind his words. But he didn't want Tony putting up a front for him, didn't want his friend pretending that everything was fine, that he wasn't suffering from bullet wounds, that he wasn't sitting in the home of the boss who had abandoned him, who had obviously hurt him.

"Please, Tony," Jimmy said, softening his tone. "I told you, you don't have to do that with me, to pretend everything's fine when it's obviously not."

The abandoned clock ticked on somewhere in the back of the house.

"What do you want from me, Jimmy?" Tony asked, tired eyes unblinking as he stared Palmer in the face.

Jimmy sighed. "Nothing. I don't want anything from you—except for you to tell me what _you _need, what _you_ want, what I can do for _you_ right now."

"You could go away," Tony said, eyes blank despite the strain in his voice.

Jimmy lifted his chin and said firmly, "I'm not going anywhere until you let me see how badly you're bleeding."

Tony's smile was mechanical. "So it's really not about what I want."

"Tony, I—" Jimmy began, trying not to sound exasperated.

But Tony cut him off. "Why are you here, Palmer?"

Jimmy had more than one answer to that, but he suddenly realized none of them was what Tony wanted to hear. "You escaped on my watch, the team was giving me shit about it, so I took a wild guess at where you might be," he tried. "I got lucky."

"You're a terrible liar," Tony said.

There was actual affection in the words, and Jimmy realized that Tony was, without a doubt, the most complicated person he had ever met.

"Would you rather I tell you the truth?" Jimmy asked. He knew the answer and he didn't let Tony speak. "Too bad. I'm here because I'm worried about you, because I care about you, because you're suffering from gunshot wounds sustained while saving my life. I'm here because you're in pain up to your eyeballs and not all of it is physical. I'm here because I know Gibbs fucked with your head by promoting you with a backhanded compliment, and even though you have every right to be pissed at him, you came here because you miss him more than you hate him, if you even hate him at all. I'm here, Tony, because you think you want to be alone but it's the last thing you need right now."

Tony was silent, but Jimmy had watched his hands ball into fists as he spoke. Palmer knew it wasn't pain; the medication would have taken effect by now.

No, Tony was angry.

But still he said nothing.

"Say something," Jimmy said, popping to his feet and starting to pace. "Say anything. Tell me I've been hanging out with my sisters too much and they're making me girly. Tell me you don't need a lecture on friendship. Tell me you're tired and need to sleep. Tell me you're hurting and don't feel like talking. Tell me you're pissed and want me to go away. Hell, tell me to fuck off. Tell me anything, as long as it's what you're thinking right now."

"Jimmy."

The lack of emotion, of inflection even, in that scared Jimmy more than if the agent had growled it.

"Sit down," Tony said, nodding at the vacated chair. "You're making me dizzy. And I could really use some sleep right now."

The anger wasn't completely gone from Tony's voice, nor the wariness from his tired eyes, but Jimmy obeyed immediately, dropping back into the armchair without a word.

It wasn't what he had been expecting, or even hoping for, Jimmy thought as he watched Tony's eyes slip closed and his hands relax, just a bit. But at least it was honest.

It was a start.


	24. Chapter 24

Tony awoke from nightmares of Kate's gory death to a very different kind of pain.

The sense of loss was the same, but as he lay on Gibbs' couch in the rather drab living room, he couldn't help thinking the uncertainty might be worse.

Kate was dead.

She wasn't coming back. Ever.

Tony knew that. It hurt like hell to admit it, to acknowledge that she would never tease him, or yell at him, or jab a pointy elbow into his ribs ever again. But at least he knew she was gone and he could try to move on. He had thought he was doing a decent job with that—until Gibbs' sudden exit from his life had dredged those feelings of devastating loss and ripped the fragile scabs from his slowly healing psyche.

Gibbs wasn't dead, but Tony was pretty sure his boss wasn't coming back.

But pretty sure was not certain—surely not as certain as death.

He wondered what he would say to Gibbs if the man happened to stroll through the front door. But finding the words was difficult because he still wasn't sure how he felt. About anything.

Gibbs' "You'll do" had cut like a razor blade, the stinging delayed by the sharpness, the sharpness belied by that gentle hand on his shoulder and the rare thawing of those icy blue eyes staring into his own shocked ones.

But once he had time to process it—to shake himself out of his stunned state enough to realize that yes, this was really happening—Tony had realized just how badly those words hurt.

Tony had been a decent student—but he had also been a standout college athlete at a university known for its sports programs and he had graduated at the top of his class at the police academy in Peoria. He had a smile that made women melt—and occasionally turn psycho—and his only hurdle to getting a date was deciding whether he wanted to see a blonde or a brunette that night. And while he didn't care to think about it, he knew he had also once been the heir to the DiNozzo fortune, the precociously charming son of a New York power couple.

Tony wasn't average.

And he liked it that way.

But those two little words, "You'll do"—as if anyone around at that moment would work, as if Tony had just happened to be standing in front of him when Gibbs had said them—had been like an earthquake, rupturing Tony's major fault line when it already felt like he was spinning off his axis. He always wondered how people who knew he had been disowned could take his extreme self-confidence at face value, and he thought Gibbs had been able to see through the cracks in the overwrought façade.

Apparently, Tony wasn't as good at reading people as he thought.

Even Gibbs' "It's your team now" line hadn't helped soothe the stinging. Tony wondered if he would feel any better now if that had been Gibbs' _only_ line that night.

He didn't know.

Hell, he didn't know why Gibbs had spoken at all. Handing over his badge and gun had gotten the message across loud and clear. Tony took it as a sign of how off his boss was because the old Gibbs never used unnecessary words when an action would do.

Or maybe Gibbs had meant it as a compliment, albeit backhanded, as Jimmy had said. Gibbs had a bit of a twisted sense of humor, and Tony understood as well as the next Joe the seemingly cutting barbs that constituted guy humor. But his relationship with Gibbs perhaps had too much of a paternalistic flavor to it for Tony to brush off some of Gibbs' jokes as easily as he would a basketball buddy's similar jibe. Gibbs, whether the man realized it or not, had an enormous capacity to hurt him, and Tony found himself wondering when he had handed over that power to his boss—and why he had let Gibbs' words even begin to matter.

But Jimmy was definitely right in his statement that Tony missed Gibbs more than he was pissed at him. And yet he wasn't entirely sure that meant he would instantly forgive him if Gibbs showed up at work tomorrow and told Tony to get his crap off _his_ desk. Tony could imagine lugging files back to his old desk and making sure he hadn't left candy wrappers on Gibbs', but he couldn't imagine what he would be feeling as he did it.

But it didn't matter.

Because Gibbs wasn't coming back.

Frustrated with his thoughts and trying again to figure out why he had decided to torment himself by coming to his missing mentor's home, Tony threw back the blanket he didn't remember covering himself with and started to sit up. But the movement reignited the burning agony in his belly and he stopped, gasping short, pained breaths as he gingerly laid a hand over the bandaged wound.

His pulse kicked up even more when he touched wetness and lifted a hand sticky and red with blood. He sighed as he lay back down, wishing he had been able to pilfer some supplies from the hospital before his escape. He doubted Gibbs had anything even remotely resembling a first-aid kit, likely reasoning that if he couldn't fix a wound with a lighter, knife and handkerchief, then he was probably dying anyway.

Noting that the pain was tolerable as long as he stayed lying flat, Tony realized Palmer must still be nearby—and had likely dosed him again while he slept, considering the darkness outside the windows. He wanted to be annoyed at the sneaky little gremlin, but honestly, the relief from the torturous pain was welcome. Maybe without the distracting stabbing in his side, he could figure out how to make Jimmy stop looking at him like he needed more mental doctoring than physical.

It wasn't that Tony didn't appreciate Jimmy's kindness and honesty. He did—even though it made him extremely uncomfortable. He just knew he needed to put up a strong front for his team, to show them that he was a solid leader that they could depend on, no matter what.

Lying in a hospital bed, weak and barely able to move without feeling like his guts were being ripped from his body, well, that wasn't exactly the best way to give his team what they needed.

Just thinking about the team made Tony want to groan and bury his head under a pillow because he knew they would likely find him before he felt strong enough to face them, to face Ducky's disappointment that he had cut and run from the hospital—again, to face Ziva's mocking that he had let Jansen even get a shot off in the first place, to face Abby's brute force method of nursing.

Tony wondered if he could call McGee and if the probie was still sufficiently scared of him to follow orders.

A faint sound made Tony jump, but he realized—gratefully, as his hand flew to his bleeding side—that it was Palmer, talking on the phone with someone.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Mallard, but I disagree," came Jimmy's voice from the kitchen. "It's not just his physical state I'm worried about."

Tony rolled his eyes.

"He got _angry_ with me for telling him I care about him."

Tony rolled his eyes and sighed. _Not quite_, he thought, still annoyed that the gremlin had found him in the first place—and bothered to show up. _Don't you get that I came to an empty house to be _alone?

"I know he should be in a hospital."

Tony rolled his eyes and winced. _Not happening, Gremlin. You might be able to hold your own in a fight, but I've got a … Damn. No gun, no knife. No phone to call for backup. No backup to call even if I did have a phone. Goddammit… _

"But even if I could drag him back without either drugging and/or hurting him, you know he would spend all of his energy on putting up a good front to convince everyone that he's fine. He is not fine, Dr. Mallard, and I think that instead of making this harder on him, maybe we should just help him. In whatever way he'll let us."

Tony closed his eyes, wondering which was more terrifying: Abby's full-contact caring or Jimmy's quiet kindness. He decided the gremlin was far worse, considering Jimmy seemed to not only understand what Tony wanted but also seemed willing to give it to him. No strings attached.

"Thank you," came Jimmy's voice a moment later, slightly closer. "I'll pick up the prescription when I go out for something for dinner. Yes, I'll call if I need anything. Thank you."

Tony feigned sleep as Jimmy walked into the room, but he forgot about the tossed-back blanket and the blood.

"Would you have even told me you were bleeding if I couldn't see it?"

Tony cracked an eyelid, noting that Jimmy looked tired and kicking himself for forgetting that the gremlin was wounded, too. He kicked himself extra hard, considering he was the one who shot him.

"Depends."

"On if you thought you were in imminent danger of bleeding to death?" Jimmy asked, but it wasn't really a question.

"Something like that," Tony agreed, feeling guilty and wishing Palmer would just go home and stop worrying about him.

Jimmy pulled his gaze away from the soggy bandage and glanced down the hall. "I don't suppose Gibbs keeps—" He stopped, shook his head. "Never mind. I'm going for dinner and some supplies."

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Jimmy just tossed his cell phone at him. "Call Abby and tell her you're not dead," he said, his voice firm. He threw a glance over his shoulder as he headed out the door. "And try not to bleed to death before I get back."

The slight slam of the door had Tony blinking at it in confused silence for a long moment. Either Jimmy was at the end of his rope, or this was a tactic. Tony figured it was the latter, considering the assistant could have just given in to Ducky and dragged him back to the hospital if he wanted to be rid of him.

_Does that mean he doesn't want to be rid of me?_ Tony wondered, thinking about how awesome a porta-potty in the middle of Gibbs' living room would be. _I always knew the gremlin was a little off… _

He decided to force himself to get up and head down the hall, both because wetting oneself was never pleasant and because it would probably piss Palmer off when he realized his attempt at tough love, or reverse psychology, or whatever, meant his poor patient had to drag himself to the bathroom all by himself.

_Maybe if I'm annoying enough, he'll get the point and leave me alone next time_.

That hadn't worked with Gibbs, but Tony knew his boss was—like the bourbon he so enjoyed—a rare breed. Tony told himself the sudden pain in his chest was bullet-related. And nothing more.

The thought of Gibbs had him thinking of Abby—it was hard not to mentally join the two, considering his boss's face on the monitors in the lab—and Tony stared down at the phone in his hand, weighing the importance of conceding a point to Palmer by obeying his order against the guilt twisting in his gut at letting Abby continue to worry. 

Tony dialed.

"Jimmy Palmer, I am going to kill you," came Abby's deadly serious voice as soon as the call connected. She didn't even pause for a breath before elaborating on her threat. "I am going to show you what an autopsy feels like—while you're still alive. At least, until I rip your beating heart from—"

"Abby," Tony cut in, his tone casual, "please don't kill Palmer. I'd really hate to have to arrest you and throw you in jail."

Abby scoffed. "Like I'd leave any evidence behind."

There was a pause, and Tony could practically see her twisting a black pigtail, trying to decide whether to be mad at him or not.

"And you only _wish _you could get me in handcuffs," she said, a tiny smile in her voice. She sighed, apparently abandoning her anger as she continued as if it had never existed. "Did you ever figure out why that dumb girl bought you those silly ones with the furry covers? I mean, yours are way higher quality and don't have that dumb little safety latch. I mean, what's the point in being handcuffed if you know you can get out of them whenever you want?"

"Do we need to have the safety talk again?" Tony asked. But he was smiling, too, knowing that as adventurous as Abby could be, she was always smart about it. It was hard to imagine Abby being dumb about anything, really.

"I think we do," she said, her bubbly tone losing a bit of its fizz. "You should know that running out of a hospital with bullet wounds is hardly safe."

"I didn't run, Abbs. I walked. I was trying to be stealthy and running would just—"

"Don't _do_ that, Tony!" Abby cried, her anger back in full force. "Don't you dare make light of what you did. You got shot, DiNozzo, as in bullets and bleeding and pain, and you were hurt bad enough to go to the hospital. Jimmy said you didn't even protest—not once—and I know that means you were either seriously out of it or unconscious or dead. And since I'm talking to you, I think that rules that last one out. But who the hell wakes up in a hospital with a hole in their body and thinks, 'Hm. I should just leave now'? Who _does _that? And who does that to their friends? We didn't know where you were. But we knew you had to be hurting, Tony, and I just wanted to hug you until the pain went away. Why wouldn't you just let us be there for you?"

Tony swallowed hard and then opened his mouth, clamping it shut as he realized Abby was pissed at him for the same reason he was pissed at Gibbs—when he could actually work himself up to being pissed. Tony had run from the hospital for a lot of reasons, and a small part of him knew one of those reasons was that he didn't know how to accept comfort when he was feeling vulnerable. He simply lacked experience with it. It was a big part of the reason he played up minor injuries, hoping people would get annoyed with his antics and learn to ignore him when he was hurt.

But he suddenly saw himself in Gibbs' position, not only a team leader but also an almost father figure for most of those team members, but his fractured memory suddenly remembering only his _real _daughter, his real family dying such horrible deaths. Tony could imagine that Gibbs was even less equipped to deal with comfort—especially coming from strangers who thought they were much, much more.

"Tony?"

Abby's whisper jumped through the line and Tony started, drawing a sharp breath, and he realized he hadn't answered her question.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, her voice still soft but now worried. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, Abby, I'm here," he said, his words as quiet as hers. "I'm sorry I scared you. I didn't mean to."

"Can you promise me you won't ever do that again?"

_No_, Tony thought, biting his tongue. He decided not to lie to her. "I can try not to," he said honestly. And then he braced for the explosion.

But it never came.

"Can you promise me something else then?" she asked in a near-whisper. She continued quickly, as if afraid of his answer. "Will you please tell me if you're going to run away? You don't have to say where, but just … just tell me, please? Just so I don't worry. Even though I will. But so I can at least sleep at night? A little."

Tony suddenly had no trouble finding his anger at Gibbs.

Gibbs' leaving NCIS had caused Abby incredible pain—but it was his skipping the country without even a word that he was considering it that had nearly killed her.

"I promise, Abby," he said, knowing this was a trust he would never violate, under any circumstances.

"Thank you," she said.

The silence was full of questions still, but Tony wasn't sure he could answer them even if he knew what they were.

So he waited.

"Tony?" she asked a moment later.

"Yeah?" he answered, trying to keep the exhaustion and slowly returning pain out of his voice.

"I…" she started, then stopped, her voice quavering. She continued, but the words came haltingly, her tone anguished. "I know you don't want to see us right now, but will you please let Jimmy stay with you?"

The pain that stabbed through Tony's chest had nothing to do with bullets slamming into Kevlar. He sighed and tried to find words. "Abby, it's not that I…" He stopped, tried again. "I'd kick Palmer out, too, if I thought he would actually stay gone."

There was a sniffle over the line, and Tony realized that wasn't exactly the best thing to say.

He suddenly remembered his conversation with Jimmy, and Tony said, "Abby, I just need some time, okay? I promise we'll do a movie night soon, and I'll let you go all Nurse Abby on me—as much as you want, okay?"

The pause was longer than Tony liked, but he smiled as soon as Abby finally spoke.

"Sounds good. Actually, it sounds a little kinky, DiNozzo."

"Hey, you're the one who was talking about handcuffs," he shot back.

She laughed. "I'll call everyone and make them leave you alone. You just rest and get better. Our team needs its leader."

Tony thanked her, said his goodbyes and hung up, eyeing the distance to the bathroom with less trepidation than before. The phone call had been a veritable bloodbath in itself, and Tony could only hope he hadn't upset Abby too much.

He ignored his own whirling emotions and concentrated on the physical, pushing himself to his feet in one movement, not bothering to suppress his yelp of pain in the empty house. He stood in the center of the room, arms banded around his middle until he could breathe without seeing stars, and then he made his slow way to the head, allowing himself occasional curses and squeaks as his body loudly complained that it preferred to be horizontal and unmoving.

He took care of business, ignoring the bloody bandages because there was nothing he could do about them, and then he took a break to lean on the doorframe, staring at the path back to the couch like he would an uncooperative suspect. He had just resigned himself to start moving when his lungs remembered they were fighting off the remnants of a serious infection.

He felt the tickle far on the back of his tongue, but—like a witness to an impending car crash—he could do nothing about it. The first cough sent blades of pain through his side, like razor wire was being pulled through the wound, and it felt like someone—or some_thing—_had kicked him square in the chest, sending out reverberations strong enough to rattle his entire ribcage. The second cough dropped him to his knees andripped a scream from his still-sore throat, and for a moment, Tony could do nothing but kneel there in Gibbs' hallway, a slave to the sensations tearing through his body.

The third cough brought blackness.

And for that, Tony was grateful.


	25. Chapter 25

Walking out on a bleeding patient hadn't been easy on Palmer, but he was confident in his judgment that it was more oozing than actual bleeding. And Tony had been alert and talking, with only traces of pain in his voice.

Then again, Jimmy thought, the agent could probably be spurting fountains from a severed artery and still belt out tunes from "Singing in the Rain."

Palmer walked up to Gibbs' front door, carrying several bags and wondering if it was odd that he felt lucky that Tony had shot him. Sure, the graze burned like blazes at times, but Jimmy knew the alternative was likely death—whether his or Tony's he wasn't sure, but neither option was a good one.

Just the thought of Jansen pressing that gun to his head sent a shiver down his spine, but Jimmy tried to shrug it off. He wasn't about to let a bad situation color his view of the world. He knew there were good people and there were bad people, and Jimmy figured that as long as he stayed on the side of good, he was doing his part to balance it all out.

Sure, he wanted to become a doctor so he could help people, but he also liked the idea that he could help fix things, to help right wrongs. It was what drew him to the assistant position at NCIS, that desire to help make things right. He couldn't help the victims he worked on with Dr. Mallard, but at least he could help find clues to solve their murders and catch the people responsible.

Jimmy walked through the living room and felt a flash of panic at the sight of the empty couch. He hoped like hell he hadn't made a mistake in being so short with Tony before he left for the store; Jimmy had just wanted the stubborn agent to realize that he wasn't going to back down from whatever fight Tony wanted to throw at him. Palmer wasn't the epitome of toughness, but he wasn't the total pushover many people took him for, either.

He dropped the bags on the floor and scanned around, hoping for some clue of where Tony might have run off to, and his heart leapt up into his throat when he saw the body crumpled on the floor in the hall.

Cursing himself for trusting his fledgling medical judgment, Palmer ran to Tony's side, his fingers going immediately for his neck to check for a pulse while his eyes zeroed in on the blood on the back of his shirt. The splotch was larger than it had been before, but not by an alarming amount.

"I'm alive," came Tony's weak voice.

"You'll have to pardon me if I don't take your word for it," Palmer said, keeping his fingers on Tony's pulse and shifting his gaze to his watch.

"Dead people don't really talk," Tony said, his eyes still closed and his breathing labored. "Ducky lies."

Jimmy couldn't help smiling, but he ignored his patient as he counted beats, not moving his fingers until he was certain Tony's heart rate was within safe limits. He flicked a glance into the bathroom and said, "You could have told me you had to go before I left."

"You could have given me a chance to speak before you ran out the door."

Jimmy winced. But then he countered, "You could have waited for me to get back."

"Doubtful," Tony said, finally opening his eyes. "I don't know if Gibbs is ever coming back, but I do know that pissing on his couch is a bad, bad idea."

Jimmy laughed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll give you that," he said, noting that Tony had made no move to get up. Jimmy softened his tone and asked, "So what happened?"

"I got up, made it this far," Tony said. He was apparently following Jimmy's eyes and he smiled. "I made it, Gremlin, so stop worrying that I wet my pants. Seriously, you juggle organs for a living and you're squeamish about urine?"

"I am not," Jimmy protested, wondering how Tony could banter with him while looking like he was going to puke. "And Dr. Mallard would have my head if I started performing circus acts with body parts. Stop trying to distract me."

Tony's smile faded. "I was headed back to the couch and I coughed," he said, a fine shiver running through his half-curled body. His tone turned disgusted. "I freakin' coughed and it was like getting hit by a train. From a freakin' _cough_."

"I, uh, think it might have been more the gunshot wounds, Tony. Maybe?" Jimmy noticed DiNozzo seemed to be actually considering that and it made him wonder just how hellish having the plague must have been. "Did you bring anything up with it?"

"What?" Tony asked, blinking in confusion.

"Your chest x-rays were quite clear considering how bad your lungs were just a few days ago. The tech commented on your 'cold'—rather than asking who switched your films with a drowning victim's," Jimmy said, watching Tony's face carefully. "Anything you want to tell me?"

Tony shifted uncomfortably. "No. You want to help me up or continue interrogating me?"

Palmer looked down at Tony's pinched face and asked, "Do you really want to move?"

DiNozzo didn't respond, but Jimmy knew the answer. He got up and went to the couch, grabbing the pillow and blanket, and returned to the hall, studying his friend as he helped him get relatively comfortable without having to move much. Jimmy settled on the floor across from him, his back against the fading paint on the wall. He wanted to tend to Tony's wounds, but he also knew there was more to be gained by not fussing than by stopping the minor bleeding.

He winced, thinking about what his professors might say to that.

But then he shrugged.

Tony was no average patient.

Jimmy waited for Tony's breath to stop hitching before asking, "So how long did you hide your illness from us?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Tony said, his eyes closed again.

Palmer knew the closed eyes were the result of pain and exhaustion—not a way to hiding lying eyes. DiNozzo didn't need that tool; he was easily the best liar Jimmy had ever met. But in this case, Jimmy's medical training trumped Tony's masks.

"I told you the other day that you don't accumulate that amount of fluid in one afternoon in a downpour," Palmer said, his tone calm. "Not unless you were snorting the rain."

He watched Tony's mouth quirk upward slightly before he winced, his arm tightening against his injured side. "I started feeling like shit about two weeks ago," Tony admitted, his eyes opening briefly before clamping shut again. "I took a cough suppressant to keep from hacking up a lung and making everyone worry. It would have been a distraction the team didn't need."

Jimmy's jaw dropped. "Are you insane?" he asked, his voice rising to an embarrassing squeak. He took a breath and wasn't surprised when the agent didn't respond. "Seriously, Tony, do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to take a cough suppressant with fluid in your lungs? You needed an expectorant, to help you clear the crap out—not a suppressant that kept it all in."

DiNozzo lifted the shoulder he wasn't lying on.

Palmer shook his head, trying to come up with a way to get through to his friend. "Hell, Tony, if the thought of killing yourself doesn't scare you, think about it this way: You probably made yourself sick for weeks, instead of letting your body do its job and feeling better in a few days."

Tony opened his eyes. "Huh. Really? Good to know," he said, as if picking up a tip on how to get bubble gum off a shoe.

Relieved that Tony had apparently listened to something vaguely resembling medical advice, Jimmy checked his watch and pulled a pill bottle out of a bag he had brought over with the blanket. He would have preferred the syringes with the heavy-duty stuff, considering the pain etched on Tony's bone-white face, but the Percocet would have to do.

He fished a bottle of water out of the bag and handed it over along with two pills. "Take these," he said, nudging Tony's hand when he didn't immediately open his eyes.

"And call you in the morning?" Tony joked, eyeing the offering warily.

Jimmy sighed, thinking, _So much for making progress._ "Can you honestly tell me you don't want them?" he asked, honestly wanting to know.

Tony raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm lying in a hallway, Palmer, trying not to puke, scream and/or cry. Of course I want them." He lifted his head and winced. "It's just going to suck sitting up enough not to choke myself doing it."

Palmer nodded, sliding a hand under Tony's neck and helping him maneuver upright enough to swallow without gagging. Tony eased back down with a groan, and Jimmy wondered if he should feel honored—or if the stubborn agent just hadn't been able to hold it in.

They sat quietly for a while, Tony resting and Palmer looking into the half-bath and wondering why the trim was pink. He figured it was to match the fading, peeling seashell wallpaper, but he couldn't figure out why Gibbs would leave it. The man struck Jimmy as the type to keep a neat, well-maintained house, and the rest of the rooms fit that bill completely. Maybe there was a story behind the wallpaper, Jimmy mused, remembering again that Gibbs had had a wife and child. But seeing it—and seeing its deterioration—would be enough for Jimmy to want to be rid of it.

_Or maybe that's why he leaves it_, Jimmy thought, unsure if he himself could continue to live in this house if he were in Gibbs' shoes.

"How's your leg, Palmster?" Tony asked, jarring Jimmy from his thoughts.

He took the nickname and the relaxing of Tony's features as evidence that the painkillers were working, and he smiled. "It's fine. Why?" he asked, looking at his pant leg to make sure he wasn't bleeding while wondering if Tony was going to be pliable enough to tolerate getting his own wounds checked.

"I shot you, Jimmy," Tony said, opening his eyes and rolling them up to land on the assistant's face. "I'm not going to keep reminding you if you keep forgetting. Even if it's probably better for our relationship if you keep forgetting. But don't. Because you shouldn't."

Jimmy frowned. "Why would I want to forget that you saved my life?"

"Because I shot you," Tony said, exasperated. "What did I just say?"

"It's fine," Jimmy said, honestly. "It really doesn't hurt as much as you would think removing layers of flesh would hurt."

Tony winced. "Palmer, do not make me puke right now."

"Sorry," he said, watching Tony shift slightly without any evidence of pain. "Can I take a look at your side now?"

"It's fine," Tony said, uncurling a bit more.

"Just because the painkillers are working doesn't mean it's not still bleeding," Palmer said, getting up to kneel beside his ornery patient. "Please?"

"I suppose," Tony said, suddenly agreeable. Jimmy figured that had something to do with the current lack of agony. "What was that stuff, anyway? It's niiiiiiiice."

"Percocet," Jimmy said, lifting the blanket off Tony's shoulder and wondering if the agent even noticed.

"Ah, Vitamin P," Tony said, nodding. "Does a body good."

Jimmy grinned—but only for a moment. The amount of blood soaking the bandage taped to Tony's belly was worrisome, and Jimmy told him to stay put while he was going to wash his hands.

"Nah," Tony said, waving a hand—still tinged with blood, Jimmy noted. "I thought I'd go run a marathon or somethin'. But I'll be right back. I'll run really fast."

"I think you might be insane, Tony."

"I know I might be," Tony said. He paused. "Oh, wait…"

Jimmy got up and took the bag to the kitchen, pulling out antibacterial soap and scrubbing his hands. He debated the cleanliness of the floor versus making Tony move—until he returned to the hall and found Tony staring up at him and grinning, obviously feeling no pain.

"I won."

Jimmy had to think for a minute. "The marathon?"

Tony nodded. "Yep."

"Were you the only one running?" Jimmy asked, stifling several other questions because he wasn't sure if he really _wanted _unfettered answers from Tony.

Tony nodded. "Yep."

Jimmy laughed and held out his hands. "Go slow," he warned. "Just because the medication is masking the pain doesn't mean you can't still do damage."

"Aye-aye, Dr. Palmer," Tony said, nodding. "Dr. Palmer. I like that. It should be the name of a TV show."

Palmer helped Tony sit up, putting a hand on his shoulder when he tried to stand up too quickly. "Hold on," he said, glad Tony was feeling better but not wanting him to overdo it. "If you stand up too fast, you'll fall over."

"Okay," Tony agreed.

Jimmy wanted to ask for some ID.

"I ran the Boston marathon once," Tony said, sitting patiently, his eyes roaming the patterns of the ugly wallpaper in the hall.

"Yeah? How'd you do?"

"Not too bad. Middle of the pack, kinda," he said, frowning. But then he shrugged and smiled at Jimmy. "No way I could keep up with the Jamaicans and Ethiopians and all those really, really fast guys. I mean, really, when your daily commute quite possibly involves outrunning a cheetah, you probably _have_ to be really, really fast."

"I bet," Jimmy agreed, distracted by the blood on Tony's shirt. "Come on. Think you can make it to the table?"

Tony scoffed. "I made it from the couch to here just fine," he said.

Jimmy decided it was probably unwise to mention that was as far as he had made it.

Instead, he took Tony by the wrists and pulled him up to his feet. It took a bit more effort than Jimmy had planned, and he realized it shouldn't be such a surprise considering that Tony was a big guy. But he rarely used his size to intimidate, and his happy-go-lucky personality also tended to distract from the fact that he was highly trained federal agent who knew how to handle himself. "Dangerous" was one of the last ways Jimmy would have described his friend a week ago, but the scene in the evidence lockup had forever changed his perception, and Palmer would never forget Tony's deadly calm steadiness in that moment when both of their lives were at risk.

Jimmy eased Tony into a chair at the dining room table, a fine shudder running down the assistant's spine as he remembered the feeling of that gun pressed against his head, the coldness in Jansen's eyes as he barked orders and threatened his life. His chest tightened at the remembered sounds of the shots, first Jansen's, then Tony's—and the sight of the agent dropping to his knees, the image of that neat hole in Tony's belly where Jansen's bullet had punched through flesh and muscle.

Suddenly, something that had been nagging at Palmer ever since the gunfight in the lockup burst to the forefront of his mind, his once-muddy thoughts now crystal clear. He couldn't stop his mouth any more than he could stop the pounding of his racing heart.

"Goddamn, DiNozzo," Palmer said, his tone incredulous bordering on angry. "What the hell were you thinking?"


	26. Chapter 26

Tony's whole demeanor—including his posture—changed so quickly that Jimmy had to wonder if his previous drug-induced good humor had been at least partially faked. Or maybe it was a cop thing, being able to go from joking to high alert in a second.

"When?" Tony asked, making Jimmy wonder how one simple word could sound so steely.

Palmer ignored him. Or at least he tried to—being on the receiving end of Tony's soul-studying gaze was seriously unnerving. But Jimmy straightened his spine and crossed his arms over his chest. "I can see how you would be confused. Between ignoring a serious illness, disobeying direct orders from the director, running out of a hospital while suffering from bullet wounds—"

"Why does everyone assume I ran?" Tony asked, his smile unsettlingly genuine.

Jimmy exploded.

"Shut up, Tony!" he yelled, taking a step back and throwing up his hands. "Stop with the jokes. Stop with the deflections. You're sitting there _bleeding_, because someone put a bullet through you. And you think this is funny? Do you have a death wish?"

"Check your pulse, Palmer," Tony said, infuriatingly calm in the face of Jimmy's heaving breath and clenched fists. "You already checked mine."

"Yeah, I know, we're still alive," Jimmy said, still angry. He looked Tony dead in the eyes. "But only because he didn't shoot you in the head."

Tony returned the stare, eyes like marbles set in an impassive face.

Jimmy felt shocked—stunned that his friend didn't seem even remotely rattled by that—and he hadn't even asked the question that had been nagging his subconscious since the firefight. Jimmy wasn't sure he wanted to ask it now, wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

But he did. He _needed_ to hear it.

But first, he tried again. "Or if that bullet had hit you a few inches to the left. Then it severs your abdominal aorta and you bleed out under my hands before anyone can do anything about it," Jimmy said, searching Tony's face for a reaction.

He didn't get one.

"It didn't," Tony said, his expression placid. But finally, a touch of a frown twisted his mouth slightly downward. "You can't start worrying about all the 'what ifs?' in this business, Palmer. You'll go crazy."

"Wrong, Tony," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "Completely wrong. I should have thought _more_ about the 'what ifs?' but I was so proud of my dumb big-screen plan that I didn't think it through. I didn't think about what would come after. I wondered if you would get my movie reference. I wondered if you would go with it. I wondered what getting shot would feel like. I even wondered if it's true that chicks dig scars. But the actual situation? The dangers and the possibilities and the consequences? I didn't think it through."

Palmer leveled intense eyes at Tony, unsurprised when the agent met his gaze unflinchingly.

"But you did."

Neither man spoke, and Jimmy found himself smiling slightly—incredulously, though, and without a trace of mirth.

"Hell," Jimmy said, "I bet you even know what I'm about to say right now."

Tony did not speak.

The odd smile on Palmer's face soured. "You knew exactly what would happen after you shot me," he said, hating the slight shake in his voice. But the question was burning in his head, engulfing his every thought. He needed an answer. "You knew that as soon as you pulled the trigger to graze me, that Jansen would shoot you, that I wouldn't drop out of the way fast enough for you to get a clear shot at him before he shot you. You knew all of that, Tony."

Green eyes stayed steady on Jimmy's face as Tony dipped his head in acknowledgment.

Jimmy closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "So how could you do that?" he asked, his voice strained. "How could you pull that trigger knowing he was going to shoot you? Possibly even kill you?"

Tony frowned slightly, obviously considering his words. "I also knew," he said slowly, "that if either me or Jansen had to shoot you, I'd rather it be me."

"Tony," Jimmy warned, unsure how it was possible to be so angry and yet so grateful at the same time—toward the same person.

The agent held up his hands. "Hear me out, Jimmy. It's not a joke," he said sincerely. "Jansen wasn't going to negotiate, and he wasn't going to give himself up. I think you know that. And I think you know he was getting extremely jumpy. You could feel it. I could see it."

Jimmy nodded, conceding that point.

"I knew it was a near certainty that he was going to put a bullet through your head," Tony continued patiently, his eyes softening when he saw Palmer flinch at that. "I knew I had a vest on, and I knew from the way he was holding the gun that he wasn't very comfortable with it. So I figured he would aim for center mass and not a head shot."

"You figured," Jimmy said, his eyes still troubled. "You didn't know he wouldn't. He could have killed you, Tony."

"He could have killed both of us," Tony said frankly. "But he didn't. Yeah, I knew he was going to shoot me. I hoped he wouldn't, or he'd miss—or that I'd be quick enough to get him first. But you're right. I knew. But I weighed the slight possibility he would kill me against the certainty that he was going to kill you, and I made a decision. I don't have a death wish, Jimmy. But if one of us had to die, I'd rather it be me. I signed up for this job—and the danger that comes with it. You didn't."

Jimmy nodded slowly, feeling slightly dazed as he watched Tony watch him. But he felt calmer, and he realized it had a lot to do not only with Tony's words, but also with the concern, understanding and compassion in the agent's eyes.

For some reason, it made him think about Tony's story about Gibbs screaming at him after nearly getting shot in that alley, and Jimmy was glad it was DiNozzo here with him and not the previous team leader—he knew he'd probably cry if either Tony or Gibbs yelled at him right now. Jimmy vowed to punch the next person who told Tony "You're not Gibbs." Or, well, maybe just give them a stern talking to.

"Cabinet above the stove," Tony said. "You know where the glasses are."

The thought of a stiff drink sounded heavenly to Jimmy, but he shook his head. "Let me check your wounds first. Doctoring under the influence is never a good idea," he said, trying to smile.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Unless the patient insists," he said, eyeing Jimmy's trembling hands. "The way you're shaking, your prodding will poke my eye out."

Jimmy smiled and headed for the kitchen, rolling his eyes at Tony's mock pout when he returned with only one glass. "A, you're taking pain medication," Palmer said, "and two, alcohol thins the blood and it'll make it harder to stop the bleeding."

"You're no fun, Gremlin," Tony said, but he was smiling as he snagged the bottle from Jimmy's shaky hands and poured. His smile turned wistful as he turned the bottle's label away from him.

Jimmy saw the subtle movement, noting too the pain in Tony's eyes despite the medication. "You really miss him, don't you?" he asked, gently.

"Didn't we just have a deep and meaningful talk?" Tony asked, smiling sadly at the face Palmer made as he gulped down the bourbon.

"That's why we should get this one out of the way, too," Jimmy said. He remembered their talk on Tony's couch the other night and said, "And then never discuss it again."

Not only was Palmer not expecting a response, he also wasn't prepared for the honest, open emotion in Tony's words.

"Gibbs can be a real bastard sometimes," he said, wincing.

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed. "He'd probably make me cry if he talked to me the way he talks to you."

"Preschoolers could make you cry, Palmer," Tony teased. But his smile turned pained again. "But Gibbs was there for me at times when I really needed someone."

Jimmy heard the unspoken corollary to that—_"And now he's gone"_—and it made his throat go tight. He realized Tony looked seriously uncomfortable with his admission, and Jimmy decided it was definitely time to check over those wounds.

"Lose the shirt," Jimmy said, gathering his supplies and scooting his chair closer.

Tony just looked at him for a moment, his expression caught somewhere between anguish and amusement. The smile won out, though, and he said, "I think I saw this in a porno once."

Palmer rolled his eyes as he gingerly peeled the tape from Tony's skin. "Don't get your hopes up. I've got my sights set on someone else."

"Reeeeeally?" Tony asked, his grin chasing the rest of the shadows out of his eyes. "Lee from Legal, perhaps?"

"Yep," Jimmy said, eyeing the oozing wound. "This might hurt a bit."

"Really?" Tony repeated, deadpan this time. But then he smiled again and ignored Jimmy's ministrations, giving him only occasional glares at the poking and prodding. "So have you chatted her up yet? Is she even single? Do lawyers actually date? Ooh, you should show her your bullet wound. Chicks really do dig scars. But you might want to wait until it's not bleeding or pus-filled or whatever. That usually grosses them out. Oh, hey, did I tell you she's going to be my new probie? Heh. My Prob-Lee."

"She told me," Jimmy said, applying a clean bandage to Tony's belly and making a swirling motion with his hand.

Tony turned obediently. "So you _have_ swapped words with the lawyer lady. Swapped any spit yet?"

Jimmy pulled the bloody gauze off Tony's back, making the agent yelp.

"I'll take that as a no," Tony grumbled. "So did you at least ask her out?"

Palmer stopped dabbing at the bleeding exit wound and grinned. "We're going to dinner and a movie next weekend," he said proudly.

"What movie?"

"I don't know. Maybe an action flick since she's so excited about becoming a field agent? Or something romantic, maybe?" Jimmy stopped poking and frowned. "What do you think?"

"Let her pick," Tony said, tossing a glare at Palmer when he started poking again.

"Sorry," Jimmy said, unwrapping a fresh bandage. "Almost done. I'm shocked you ever let someone else pick the movie."

Tony shrugged, getting a glare from Palmer as he tried to tape the gauze in place against Tony's back. "I've had to sit through some seriously awful cinematic garbage, but the ladies really like it when you take an interest in their interests. Or if you fake-fight 'em and then 'let' them win. They love that."

Palmer tossed a look over his shoulder at Tony as he started clearing up the table. "Why am I not surprised you'd fake-fight a girl just to let her win?"

"Why am I not surprised you haven't?"

"Touché."

Jimmy finished cleaning up and then held his hands out, taking Tony by the wrists to avoid the stitches in his left hand and the bruising on his right. He almost said something about it, but he realized it wouldn't do any good.

"Come on," Palmer said, hauling his friend to his feet and ignoring the soft groan. "Back to the couch for you, and then I'll make dinner."

Tony grinned as Jimmy slid under his right arm to help him walk the short distance back to the living room.

"Aw, Jimmy, you're gonna make such a nice house husband for the Prob-Lee someday."

Jimmy kicked him. Gently.

"And you should mention to her that we're friends," Tony said, allowing Jimmy to ease him down onto the couch.

"Why's that?" Palmer asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Tony grinned devilishly. "Because if she's mean to you—or dumps you—I can make her life a living hell."


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: **With many sincere apologies for those who have been waiting, and deepest gratitude to those who reached out during my absence. This is for anyone who has ever found the strength to do what needs to be done.

* * *

><p>Tony awoke to darkness later that night, his heart racing from some unremembered nightmare that had left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes, searching for whatever image had haunted his dreams, but he came up empty.<p>

It was probably for the best, he realized, considering how his pulse was still pounding, the steady, rapid thud against his ribs echoed in his wounded side.

He pulled himself upright with a soft groan and wondered where in the house Palmer had chosen to get some sleep. Tony hoped it was somewhere the Gremlin could put his injured leg up; he had noticed Jimmy limping slightly earlier in the evening and he felt another jolt of guilt for shooting his new friend.

_Just another in the long line of my fucked-up relationships_, he thought wearily.

There was a pill bottle and a glass of water on the table nearby, and Tony picked up the painkillers without hesitation, knowing it was the middle of the night and he wouldn't be able to sleep with the bullet wound throbbing in time with his heart. Even setting the glass back down made his bruised chest burn, so Tony swallowed the pills and settled back against the ugly old couch.

He thought about lying down again, but the pain was too intense for sleep and he was suddenly feeling wide awake. He did not allow himself to admit that it might also be the prospect of lurking nightmares keeping him up at this late, lonely hour. His eyes roamed the darkened room and finally settled on a pink bike in a corner. Tony remembered asking about it when he had stayed here after his boiler blew, and the answer Gibbs gave suddenly made sense.

"Someone left it there," was all Gibbs had said before changing the subject by ordering Tony into the kitchen to make dinner. At the time, Tony had thought the bike probably belonged to a girlfriend, maybe the convertible-driving redhead Gibbs occasionally saw, but now, he had to wonder if perhaps it belonged to Shannon.

Tony closed his eyes again, not longing for sleep but trying to picture the woman Gibbs had married—and fathered a child with.

Green eyes snapped open at the image of a happy family with Gibbs at its center.

It wasn't that he couldn't picture Gibbs as a family man—he had seen his boss around kids enough to know better—it was that he couldn't imagine how anyone could go on after losing a wife and a child.

Not to mention how unsettling it was to have known Gibbs for four years and _not_ know this.

Tony's wandering thoughts suddenly made him sit up a little straighter as he wondered if Kate had known. He doubted it—Gibbs wasn't exactly the sharing type—but his dead partner had been a profiler, and Tony had occasionally picked up on hints of attraction between her and their boss.

But Tony shook off the thoughts.

He would do pretty much anything to keep Kate out of his head tonight.

And it had nothing to do with images of Gibbs and Kate on a date.

Tony frowned, feeling another prickling of guilt as he realized that kicking his former partner and friend out of his thoughts felt like a betrayal of the woman he had not only respected but also cared for deeply.

"Tony, you okay?"

The agent jumped at the voice that came from the hall. Pain spiked through his side, and he tried—and failed—to stifle a yelp. A rather loud, embarrassing yelp that Palmer mercifully ignored.

"I'm good," Tony said, his embarrassment at being so startled fading as he watched Jimmy stretch and lean against the doorframe, his features creased with pain. "You?"

Jimmy frowned. "Getting shot hurts."

Tony grimaced along with him as Palmer limped toward the couch and sank down beside him with a sigh.

"I'm really sorry, Jimmy," Tony said sincerely. He nodded at the bottle of painkillers on the table and tried to ignore his reawakened guilt. "Help yourself."

Jimmy shook his head. "That's illegal."

Tony raised an eyebrow as he studied his friend's face. "You think I would arrest you?" Palmer didn't look convinced, so Tony said, "You know I would never."

"Well," Jimmy said, doing a bad job of suppressing a smile, "I never thought you'd shoot me either."

With a chuckle and a shrug, Tony glanced back at the bottle and said, "Besides, it's my fault you even need them."

Palmer was silent for so long that Tony had to check to make sure he wasn't sleeping.

Finally, Jimmy turned to him and said, sincerely, "You also saved my life."

All of Tony's anxiety from the hospital sprang up again as earnest eyes locked onto his.

"Thank you, Tony."

As he struggled to find something to say, to find the words Jimmy needed to hear, his mind started racing just as his heart had been after the nightmare. That damned annoying clock ticked away seconds that seemed agonizingly long, and Tony clenched his left hand into a fist to stop his furiously flicking fingers. He was just starting to get desperate when Palmer laughed softly.

"We don't need to have some sappy conversation now," Jimmy said. He grinned. "We don't even have to hug."

Tony mock-pouted, nearly sighing in relief as tense muscles began to unknot themselves. "What if I wanted to hug?" he joked.

Palmer punched him. Lightly.

"Too bad," he said, rolling his eyes. He shrugged then. "We don't have to hug and you don't have to say anything. I just needed to say thank you for saving my life."

And suddenly, Tony knew exactly what to say.

He smiled.

"You're welcome."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, Palmer's eyes scanning the room while Tony closed his, finally relaxing completely and letting his aching body sink into the battered tan couch. He was nearly asleep when Palmer's quiet voice drifted over.

"Why the hell does Gibbs have a pink bike? In his living room?"

Tony's laugh sent daggers through his chest and side—but it wasn't the physical pain that made his breath catch in his suddenly tight throat.

But he wasn't about to tell Palmer that.

But as it turned out, he didn't need to.

"I'm sorry," Jimmy said. "I didn't mean to bring him up. You have enough to deal with without thinking about Gibbs."

Tony took a slow breath and a moment to clear the grief from his voice before saying, wryly, "It's kinda hard not to think about Gibbs when I'm sitting in the man's living room."

Jimmy's mouth opened and closed a few times, but like a broken toy, no sound emerged.

"Spit it out, Palmer," Tony said, his tone shifting midsentence from amused to weary.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, the words coming out in a confused rush—but he looked like he wanted to take it back before the question was even half-finished.

Tony smiled, but it meant nothing. "Why did you come here to look for me?"

There was no answer, and Jimmy simply stared down at his hands, knotted in his lap.

"Gremlin?" Tony said, his eyes trying to search out Jimmy's downcast ones.

Palmer looked up with a tight frown. "I asked first," he said, but his tone was meek.

Tony matched the frown. "Honestly?" he said, holding up a hand at Jimmy's exasperated huff. "I don't have an answer. I just know I needed to get the hell out of that hospital, and this is where I ended up. I could say it's because this was closer than my place—"

"But it isn't," Jimmy interrupted.

"—but that would be a lie," Tony finished. He looked down at his own clenched hands and then back up at Jimmy. "I just wanted to be here. I don't really know why."

Jimmy was quiet for a minute before asking, softly, "Would it really be so bad to admit that you miss him?"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Considering that we're two grown men and you already made me shriek like a girl once tonight and—"

"Tony," Jimmy started to cut in.

"Palmer," Tony returned, his voice tired. "I like you. I do. But I don't want to talk about it."

Jimmy nodded, slowly, questions obviously still on his mind. But he did not speak.

Tony shifted in the uncomfortable silence. And then again when it stretched on.

And on.

And on.

"Gibbs left," he finally said, huffing the words out hard enough to obliterate any emotion in them. "And talking about it isn't going to change that."

Jimmy nodded again, his eyes still troubled.

"And I shouldn't even be upset that he left," Tony said after a moment, unable to pry his eyes from the pink bike. "I got team lead because he's gone."

"Because he gave it to you," Jimmy added quietly.

But the soft words were like a punch in the gut and Tony had to take a deep breath before he could speak. "I guess I could be upset that he…" He swallowed and shook his head. "That he ran out before I had a chance to do the leaving. That's usually my job, you know, being the one to walk away."

Jimmy frowned and ran appraising eyes over the agent. "That's all you're upset about? That he beat you to the door?"

Tony closed his eyes and tried to relax, wondering why the bullet wound in his side didn't hurt at all but the pain in his chest was all but suffocating.

"What's your worst fear, DiNozzo?"

Tony opened his eyes and studied Jimmy, noting that the question was firm, all traces of the meek autopsy gremlin gone.

"I told you mine," Jimmy said when Tony didn't speak.

The agent had to think for a minute, but then he remembered their conversation earlier that week in autopsy. "Dropping dead bodies is not your worst fear," he said, rolling his eyes.

"No," Palmer said, waiting until Tony had focused on him again, "but failure is."

Tony's eyes went wary as he turned them to the ceiling and settled deeper into the lumpy couch. "I thought we were talking about Gibbs."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about Gibbs," Jimmy shot back, but his tone was calm.

"If I don't want to talk about Gibbs, what makes you think I'd want to talk about failure?" Tony asked. The backs of his eyelids felt like sandpaper, but he knew sleep would be impossible.

Palmer smiled knowingly. And somehow, it was almost more comforting than infuriating. Maybe. "Because you like control."

Tony was pretty sure he knew where this was going, but he threw on his best confused look.

Palmer rolled his eyes. "You can control how you do your job, how you lead the team. You have the skills to solve the cases—"

"I didn't solve shit this time," Tony said, thinking about how they would still be at a loss in the case if Jansen hadn't stormed autopsy.

Jimmy's brow furrowed but his words were firm. "You knew something was wrong and you came to help me," he said. He paused and looked Tony in the eyes. "You were absolutely in control in the evidence cage."

Tony didn't speak.

Palmer hesitated for a moment, then said quietly, "But you can't control Gibbs."

The laugh that escaped Tony's lips was more sigh than chuckle. "An entire coven of mind-reading, shape-shifting, body-snatching mystics couldn't control Gibbs."

"Technically," Jimmy disagreed pleasantly, "if they were body-snatchers—"

"I miss Gibbs."

Tony watched Jimmy study his face, knowing the assistant was trying to look through the carefully blank mask to find the emotion underlying the words.

"And I want him to come back," Tony continued, voice perfectly even. It was a good thing he had a lot of practice shoving his feelings into tiny locked boxes and shoving them into the back of his mind, into the depths of his soul—anywhere that he wouldn't mentally trip over them. "So Ducky can stop being so angry, so Ziva and Tim can stop being so annoyed that they have to trust me, so Abby can stop crying her heart out every other night…"

Jimmy turned, cocking his head ever so slightly.

Tony heard the unspoken words. He took a deep breath and allowed into his voice the tiniest bit of the pain that had taken up residence within him ever since Gibbs had walked away. "So I can finish learning from him."

"You miss your boss."

Palmer's voice was toneless, his face carefully arranged so that only a tiny hint of question showed.

Tony was disgusted with himself. _He_ was supposed to be the collected one, the calm one, the one who _never_ shared enough to feel like he was giving pieces of himself away.

But he couldn't help it.

He gasped the words, his anguish entirely emotional—as if his physical wounds were magically healed.

"I miss my friend."

Tony lunged to his feet before Jimmy could even begin to stop him, if the assistant even thought about it. He knew his face was an equal mix of pain and rage, and he didn't blame the gremlin for wanting to steer clear of his frenzied flight from the room.

The basement beckoned, but Tony knew better than to trap himself—and he wasn't sure he was over the respiratory infection enough to not end up hacking up a lungful of sawdust.

So he changed course and bolted for the back door, his mouth mutating into an unpleasant smile.

_At least _I'm _getting to do the leaving this time. _


	28. Chapter 28

Tony made it as far as the back patio before his body remembered it had an extraneous hole in it.

He dropped with a frustrated growl onto the top step and waited, his arms automatically snaking around his injured body. He wondered briefly if he would ever heal from this.

And then he pictured Jimmy standing in the middle of Gibbs' kitchen, wondering what to do now. He wished he could shout through the still half-open door and tell Jimmy not to bother.

Tony knew there was no fixing himself.

There was a loudish thud behind him, and he knew it was less Palmer's clumsiness and more a way of making an entrance without causing any more girlish shrieking.

The agent opened his mouth to make a joke about his earlier startled reaction, but Jimmy's soft voice cut him off.

"Abby wanted to call him, you know."

Tony wasn't sure what it meant that his first thought was Gibbs—not his father.

But he ignored that and asked, casually, "She has a number?"

Jimmy stepped around a red Adirondack chair and settled beside him on the wide stone steps. He shrugged. "If not, I bet she could _find_ one."

There was really no arguing with that so Tony just sighed. "It wouldn't have made a difference if she had," he said, shrugging with a barely concealed wince. The pain ignited like a flash fire, but he kept his voice even. "I'm fine."

"You got shot," Jimmy countered, raising an eyebrow but managing not to shout in incredulity. His eyes were on the stone birdbath in the middle of the yard as he bumped his knee against Tony's, but his tone was anything but casual. "Don't you think your _friend_ would want to know that?"

Coming from anyone else, the words might have sounded cruel. But Tony knew that Jimmy didn't have an ounce of malice in his entire body—and the agent also could read the question in the statement.

"I meant it when I said I…" Tony drew a slow breath, "missed my friend. But 'friend' is probably the wrong word."

Jimmy was silent, staring across the darkened yard at the landscaping that was just slipping from well maintained into disarray.

The space seemed oddly wooded for being so close to the Capitol, but it somehow seemed right. Leave it to Gibbs to find a private forest within the District.

Jimmy was waiting, patiently.

Tony was glad for that patience.

He struggled to find the right word but gave up and said, "You could search ten dictionaries in ten different languages and never find the right one." He paused, struggling to put his thoughts in order. For a moment, he forgot what he was trying to explain. His eyes wandered the backyard, falling finally on a shed near the back corner of the lot. "See the uneven paint job on the trim over there? That's all me. I had this bad breakup—I know, usually I'm the one to end things, but she dropped me like a bad habit when her ex decided he wanted her back. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I didn't even tell Gibbs—he just knew something was wrong and told me I should help him paint his shed."

Tony paused, glanced at Palmer. "If it's weird to think of Gibbs as a friend, think of how I felt when I realized he was being nice to me." He shook his head, eyes sad as he realized all over again what he had lost. The grief there was like a film, muting the colors of the plants that should have been vibrant under the light streaming through the glass doors behind them. "And that wasn't the only time. He offered me a place to stay when my building's boiler blew and I had nowhere else to go. I mean, Gibbs is a military guy, and you could say he was just being a good CO…"

"But that's not all it was," Jimmy said, obviously sensing that Tony couldn't finish his sentence. "He cared about what happened to you."

Tony put a hand to his temple, recognizing the headache as the kind that comes from thinking in circles for far too long.

Jimmy winced. "I mean, he _cares_ about what happens to you." His cheeks went slightly red as he corrected his tense, and then he hurried on, "Like I said, Abby wanted to call him. Do you remember talking to her? After the ER?"

Tony's blank face was, for once, not a mask.

"You were pretty out of it," Jimmy said, his small smile reassuring.

It made Tony wonder what he had said during that time between the emergency room haze and waking up at least somewhat coherent in his room.

"You told her not to call," Jimmy continued, "and Dr. Mallard and I convinced her to respect your decision."

"Thank you," Tony said softly. He didn't remember the conversation, or consciously making that decision, but he was pretty sure why he had. He would never admit it out loud, but he was fairly certain he had wanted Gibbs there—but was too terrified to ask for him. The wound inflicted by Gibbs' leaving was too fresh, too raw to even think about adding the pain of outright rejection to the unrelenting ache, throbbing away deep in his soul.

The look on Jimmy's face made Tony wonder if he really should fear mind-readers.

But all Jimmy said was, "You're welcome."

Tony sat quietly, the warm, dark night wrapping around him like a soothing balm to his frayed nerve endings. He focused on trying to relax each bunched muscle, starting with his clenched hands and working his way up to the knots of tension in his neck. He turned his head slightly, nearly smiling at the satisfying pop.

"But I think he would have come," Jimmy said.

The slowly smoothing muscles snapped instantly back into tension, as if _that_ were their natural state. Or so it had seemed lately. Tony's spine went rigid, but he didn't say a word.

Palmer frowned. "You got shot, Tony—"

"And if Jansen had gone for the head shot," the agent bit out, taking solace in the temporary reprieve of anger, "you might be right."

Jimmy flinched as if he'd been slapped, and Tony instantly regretted letting his control slip, even if it had been for just a moment. Palmer wasn't an agent, and Tony knew the assistant was still badly shaken by what had happened, both in autopsy and in the evidence locker. He knew he wasn't the only one who was dealing with nightmares.

"Jimmy," he started, closing his eyes as the headache returned with a vengeance, the pain making spits of his eyeballs.

"It's okay," Palmer said, though he was still frowning. "I should have kept my mouth shut. I know this is in no way easy for you. And I know talking to me isn't easy either. I'm sorry."

Tony slammed the brakes on thoughts of rules before they could even form. "Don't be," he said simply. "You're a saint for even trying, for even being here. Still."

Jimmy nodded, uncomfortable, and Tony watched his frown deepen, rather than fade.

"Ask," Tony said, his voice normal even though he wasn't sure he could answer the question in Palmer's eyes. Hell, he wasn't even sure he wanted to hear that question.

"It's just," Jimmy started, sighing in a puff of air and turning to face Tony. "Can you just reassure me that you know how dumb it was to leave the hospital with a bullet wound? Please?"

It wasn't any question Tony had been expecting, so he shrugged and gave a noncommittal nod.

Jimmy huffed another frustrated sigh. "I mean," he said, struggling for words even though it seemed this had been bothering him for a while now, "what if I hadn't come here to look for you? You could have lain here for days—or bled out on the floor."

The emotion in the words had Tony even more uncomfortable, though he wasn't sure how that was possible. "Nah, Abby would have found me."

The frown turned thoughtful and Jimmy shook his head, muttering almost as if to himself, "I knew she knew… Scaredy-lab-rat."

"Palmer," Tony said, faint amusement in his eyes despite the gnawing grief making a buffet of his insides, "she would have found me because she comes here every Sunday night."

Jimmy blinked for second before his eyes went sad. "Oh," he said softly.

The sympathetic pain behind the round glasses pulled Tony's tension tighter, like a stick through a tourniquet, turning, twisting, suffocating. He had been so lost in his own private hell that he had almost forgotten about Abby, who not only had to deal with her resonate aching at Gibbs' departure, but now had suffer the echo of her new leader's self-imposed exile.

Apparently, it was becoming a trend.

"If I ever have trouble being pissed at Gibbs for leaving," Tony said, forcing himself to once again ease his grip on his iron control enough to let the words out, "all I have to do is look at her face. She didn't sleep much before—now I worry that she might collapse on us one day. I'm surprised she didn't keel over that night in the squad room. And the way he treated her then, silencing her when we all know that Abby deals by talking—always a mile a minute and usually about things I don't understand. But for him to _mute_ her like that… I've never felt like punching him so much as I did right then."

"So you are angry with him," Jimmy said slowly. He continued at Tony's nod, "For how he treated Abby."

Anthony DiNozzo had a few negative traits. Dumb was not one of them.

But the first thought that came to his head in answer to Jimmy's unspoken question—_Yes, he hurt me, too_—was one he would never speak out loud.

"Gibbs says mean things to me all the time," Tony said, shrugging as though he didn't remember the specifics of some of the sharper barbs. "He insults my intelligence, questions my charm with the ladies, calls me all kinds of names, threatens to shoot me. Kidding around is his way of showing he cares. It's part of why I can't really define what Gibbs and I are—I get freaked out when he's nice to me and he knows it. Maybe that makes us both a little fucked up, but that's just how it is."

The slight smile that had built while he spoke dropped completely off Tony's face. "Was," he corrected quietly, banding his arms around himself again even though his wounded side was quiet for the moment. At least if the pain was rearranging his carefully constructed face, he would have some sort of excuse. "Yes, I'm mad at him—for a lot of reasons. But I do miss him—a lot—and if he walked back through that door right now and yelled at me for bleeding on his couch, I'd forgive him in an instant. I'm not sure I like it, but that's the way it is. And I definitely don't like the thought that he might never come back. But that's the way it is.

"As I'm sure you know," he said, flicking a glance at his new friend's face, "life just sucks sometimes, Jimmy."

For a long time, they both stared out at the night sky, black as tar and stretching out in all directions, seemingly for eternity. Somewhere down the street there was a restless dog, its sharp barks the citified version of its lupine cousins' howling at the moon.

"This is kind of awkward," Jimmy finally said.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Which part? Us talking about emotions or you now knowing Ziva's not the only screamer on the team?"

Jimmy's eyes lit up and he said, "Ziva's a screamer?"

Tony laughed, thinking back to those friction burns on Ziva's knees. "I think I love you, Palmer. How's that for awkward?"


	29. Chapter 29

Abby walked through the front door of Gibbs' house that Sunday night about an hour later than usual. She had spent the afternoon with the nuns, making sandwiches for the homeless shelter and trying to remember that her own problems, while soul-drainingly painful, paled in comparison with so many others'.

She paused in the hall, feeling more than a little guilty as she prayed that, just maybe, this time she would catch the scent of sawdust and coffee that would immediately right her world. She closed her eyes, frustrated and fighting tears, and wished that her nose were as sensitive as her beloved mass spec.

"You're late."

Abby's eyes flew open and her hands came up to clutch at her throat as she squeaked, "Sweet baby _carrots_, DiNozzo! Are you trying to scare me into a heart attack? I know I sleep in a coffin but that doesn't mean I'm all ready to die already!"

She was suddenly fighting a smile, though, and it was a hard thing to do while staring at the giant grin on the face of her best friend—and now her boss. But they weren't at work now, so she stuck her tongue out at him. "Jerk."

Tony replaced the smile with a poorly executed mock-pout. "I'm wounded," he said, crossing his hands dramatically over his chest.

Abby felt her eyes fill with tears—again—as she pictured him as he had been just days ago, stripped to the waist and bleeding on a gurney as paramedics shoved him into an ambulance with an urgency that had made her own blood about freeze in her veins. She remembered the exact color of the bruise splattered across his chest, dead-center over his fragile heart. It was the same purplish-red of her favorite dress—a dress that had gone immediately down the garbage chute the second she got home that night.

"You okay?" he asked, real concern in his slate-green eyes as he moved closer.

Abby realized Sister Rosita had been dead-on with her "pale as a corpse" comment that afternoon. The scientist calculated her recent sleep-to-waking-to-crying ratio. She winced. Numbers didn't lie. But she could.

"I'm good," she said, very carefully looping her arm through his and gently steering him to the couch.

She was glad she could pretend the rattling of the chains on her skirt drowned out his soft groan as he sat beside her on the awful couch. She pulled off her boots—monstrous black ones with hot-pink ribbon laces crisscrossing up the sides—and then she sighed, trying to get settled in among the lumps and broken springs.

"This couch is SO uncomfortable," she complained.

Tony smiled again. "Says the girl who sleeps in a coffin."

"Exactly!" she said, glad he agreed with her.

His smile got wider as he opened his arms to her. Normally, she would have flown into that safe circle of his comforting warmth, especially when feeling as emotionally wrecked as she did. But she was still seeing his bruised, bloody body on that gurney. She was glad she hadn't seen the actual wound in his side. Maybe. Her job had taught her more about the brutal efficiency of bullets than she'd ever really wanted to know—and her imagination was sickeningly vivid.

She shook her head slowly and said softly, "I don't want to hurt you."

He rolled his eyes, still smiling, though she wasn't sure how. "Then get over here," he said, letting the smile turn to another faked pout.

She scooted over, her movements best measured by millimeters per hour, until she was tucked against his right side, her face resting lightly on his shoulder and her arm bent up against herself even though she wanted to cling to him and never let him go. She bit her lip, wishing not for the first time that she were smaller, so she could crawl into his lap and flatten herself against every available surface of his warm body without hurting him. As it was, she barely dared to breathe.

"Breathe, Abbs," he commanded gently.

She couldn't help her tiny smile as she sucked in a careful breath. "I didn't realize Gibbs left his mind-reading powers with you."

She got the whole sentence out without choking—without her voice breaking on _his_ name—but then she stopped breathing again, sure the slightest whisper of air would shatter the fragile dam on her swirling emotions.

"Breathe," he repeated, his voice so soft she wondered if he knew the glasslike nature of her internal barrier.

She obeyed.

But it was a bad idea.

That one small breath crashed like a boulder through her already cracking crystalline defenses and left her sobbing, her chest heaving like she was running an endless race, no finish line in the distance, its start an ancient memory.

Tony pulled her tighter against him, but it only made her cry harder, adding guilt to the mountain of grief and pain and loss already crushing her because she knew she had to be hurting him with her convulsive sobs.

And it wasn't just the bullet wounds that she was worried about.

For all Tony's theatrics, Abby knew when the pain was real, he would much rather suffer in silence, a fact that was doubly true when the wounds weren't physical. She also knew that he was far more comfortable being a caretaker than being taken care of, even if his methods were a bit unorthodox.

She smiled a heartbroken smile at the memory of Tony egging Gibbs on and making a target of himself so their boss wouldn't snap under the tension of his drawn-tight emotions after Kate's death. She knew most people would think Tony's challenging Tim to go see Kate in autopsy was cruel and insensitive, but Abby knew better. She had seen the relief, the guilt lifting from Tim's face as he and Tony had walked away, having said what needed to be said to their fallen friend. And Abby could remember—with guilt of her own—how Tony had stood there in her lab, soaking wet clothes clinging to a body weakened by his recent bout with the plague, and he had been strong for her, letting her throw her tirade at him full-force, simply because he knew she needed an outlet for her anger. And not only had he withstood the barrage of her sharp-edged words, he had _hugged_ her for them when she had run out of ammo to fire.

The man was a rock. And a marshmallow. And everything in between. He was like the softest, most comforting mattress atop an unbending frame that could withstand the fiercest temblors of the worst nightmares.

He was her best friend.

And yet she knew—like a migrating bird knows true north—that no one had repaid him his quiet kindnesses during their shared tragedy. Whatever he had done to get himself through the pain and grief and shock and loss—screamed, yelled, fought, broken things, or broken down and cried—she knew he had done it alone.

It was cosmically unfair.

And mostly her fault.

So she decided right then and there that she would repay him, with the interest of a long-overdue debt, and try to be his lifeboat during this most recent storm.

Abby used two fingers to swipe at her tears, wrinkling her nose at the smears of black that stained her fingertips. She pressed her index finger to the back of Tony's left hand, frowning at the healing tear in his skin and trying to focus on the pretty whorls and ridges of her print beside it.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression endearingly confused.

"You be the crime scene," she said, nodding resolutely. "I'll be the investigator."

He turned to get a better look at her face, and the movement must have hurt him, but she barely saw the spark of pain burn through his searching eyes, fleetingly, and ruthlessly stamped out just as she identified it.

"Are you taking anything for the pain?" she asked quietly.

He frowned. "I must be. Because I suddenly don't understand a word you're saying."

She touched the back of his hand, smudging her print. "You're evidence now. And you know that evidence _speaks_ to me," she explained. She softened her voice and looked into his eyes, imploring. "Talk to me, Tony. For just five minutes, will you please stop being everything everyone else needs and tell me how you're feeling? About everything? Or, I'd settle for just anything. Just please talk to me."

He winced, but she didn't think it had anything to do with his injuries this time. She frowned, glancing at the mostly empty takeout containers and pile of medical supplies on the coffee table.

"Palmer beat me to it, didn't he?" she asked, trying not to grumble.

Tony grinned anyway. But the expression faded. "I'm not sure I can handle another talk about my feelings," he said honestly. But then he added, quickly, "But if you want to talk, I'm here. I'm actually a pretty good listener."

Abby rolled her eyes. "You say that like I don't already know it to be an absolute, scientifically proven truth."

"Scientifically proven?" he questioned.

"I'm a scientist," she said, lifting her chin slightly, "and I know it to be true. Tada."

He smiled, shifting so his forehead was touching hers. "I mean it, Abbs. You need to talk, I'm always available to listen."

She leaned up and dropped a kiss on his nose. "Door swings both ways, Tony."

He settled back against the couch, eyeing the ancient TV with something like veiled hatred. "Wanna watch a movie?"

Abby sat up straighter. "Absolutely," she said, giving the TV the same evil eye. "But we're going to your place, so we can actually see whatever you want to watch."

Sadness washed through Tony's eyes for a moment as he looked around the drab living room. Abby had the feeling he was seeing things that weren't there, and her heart ached for him as she tried to think of something to say. She tried to figure out what would make her feel better, and then she realized there were no words. She simply took his hands, ignoring both the groan and the grateful-yet-embarrassed look in his eyes as she towed him to his feet.

"Thanks, Abbs," he said, leaning against her more heavily than she ever would have imagined.

She was quite honored.

"I should pick up some of this junk," Tony said, nodding at the table.

Abby gave him a look before sliding out from under his arm—carefully, and slowly, to make sure he stayed upright—and then tossed most of the gauze and tape and ointments into her coffin bag, leaving the rest of the mess exactly where it was.

Tony looked uncomfortable, but Abby didn't let him speak the words she knew he didn't want to say—for her benefit, of course.

She just shook her head and forced her voice into steadiness. "We'll be back here before he is," she said, glad to find that her voice came out sufficiently light.

And she was glad for the genuine smile that Tony flashed at her as she positioned herself at his side again, ready to help him out to her car.

"Has anyone ever told you you're one smart cookie, Ms. Sciuto?" he asked, allowing her to support him as they made their slow way out of the house.

Abby pulled a key out of her pocket and locked the door behind them. She was glad to find that she was able to return his smile.

"My boss tells me that all the time."


	30. Chapter 30

The night before Tony planned to go back to work, he was awakened by a furious pounding on his door.

He thought about grabbing his gun, but decided it unnecessary since he was positive he knew exactly who was trying to dent the wooden door.

And the autopsy gremlin wasn't really that scary.

And besides, Tony had already shot the guy once. It was a miracle Palmer still talked to him, and Tony didn't think he should push his luck.

Still, he opened the door and grumbled, "I have no idea how Abby still has a security clearance."

Jimmy was not amused. "How do _you_ still have one?" he asked as he brushed by, a dark look on his face. "They aren't supposed to give them to crazy stupid people either, but apparently you slipped through their dumbass detector."

Tony started to laugh and ended up wincing—not at the pull in his healing side but at Palmer's glare. Gremlin actually looked pissed.

"Come on," Tony said, smiling anyway. "Are you suddenly forgetting I worked with Gibbs for six years? You can't intimidate me, Gremlin."

That seemed to take a little wind out of Jimmy's sails, and he stared at the floor for a minute before asking, "Are you sure you don't have a death wish?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "I told Abby I'm going back to work—to the office, not to the field. I'll still be sitting on my ass, but at least I might be able to get some work done."

Tony saw that Palmer was about to argue so he held up a hand and put on his best pained expression. "Jimmy, please. Ducky's already all over me about this. It would be nice to have someone—to have _you_—back me up." He paused, waiting for a response that never came. "I know everyone has serious doubts about my self-control, but I really can keep my ass planted behind a desk."

Jimmy frowned and shook his head. "I don't know how anyone could doubt your self-control," he said quietly.

"Oooookay," Tony said, uncomfortable. "Then they don't trust me. Whatever. I promise to be good."

"You really believe that, don't you?" Jimmy asked, his voice still soft. He clarified, "That they don't trust you?"

Tony felt suddenly exhausted, but he didn't dare admit that any more than he was going to admit that he had been asleep on his couch at seven at night. Losing frightening fractions of your blood volume tended to take it out of you, though.

"Ziva has more real-world experience than half of NCIS combined," Tony said, trying not to sound as tired as he felt. "And Tim's ten times smarter than I'll ever be. Same with Abby. And the only reason Ducky's putting up with me is because he's so mad at Gibbs that I don't think he even wants him to come back like everyone else does. But Ziva's Mossad and Tim is green in the field, so I got team lead by default. Even though I don't deserve it. If Kate were still alive, she'd be the boss and would have solved the case of the counterfeit bills and gone to a yoga class or six without even breaking a sweat. Same with Gibbs. Except the yoga part. But they're not here. She's dead and he's gone, and there is nothing I can do about any of it."

Tony was mortified to realize his hands were balled into tight fists and there was an odd moisture in his eyes as he finished his ranty little speech. He blamed the painkillers. Except he had stopped taking them days ago.

He blinked twice to clear the moisture that Kate's ghost had thrown in his face in a sad echo of her blood.

The sympathy behind Jimmy's round frames was almost too much for Tony to handle.

The words were worse.

"Gibbs thought you deserved team lead. So did the director." Palmer paused while Tony tried not to throw up. "Tim didn't ask for a transfer and Ziva didn't hop a plane straight back to Israel. Abby's downing more M&Ms than a Halloween haul, waiting for you to come back. She says the team needs its glue and yells at anyone who even says your name in the wrong tone of voice. And Ducky 'puts up with you' because he likes you. He also thinks you're a leader worth following, Tony."

There was only one fact there that Tony could easily refute. So he did. "Gibbs also thought Ziva was Kate and cell phones were still the size of bricks." He swallowed and told himself to stop there. He blamed his exhaustion for the words that slipped out anyway. "Who knows who he thought I was when he handed me his badge. Or maybe I just happened to be standing in front of him when he decided he was done."

"Hey," Jimmy said, loudly and incredulous. "You can't really believe that, can you?"

"I'm nothing to him, Jimmy," Tony said, turning away when he couldn't quite put the force behind those words that he wanted to. "He quit. And that was one thing. But then he ran off without so much as saying—" He stopped, bracing his hands against the back of his couch. His harsh breaths sent pain knifing through his side and he tried to calm his ragged breathing.

"How long ago did you stop taking the pain meds?" Jimmy asked softly.

Tony didn't turn to face the assistant. He just shook his head slowly. "Doesn't matter."

"Tony."

The hand suddenly on his shoulder made the agent jump. He turned and found Jimmy staring at him, wide-eyed.

"Please tell me you're not punishing yourself."

Tony laughed, but his eyes were sad. "Relax, Palmer. I'm not the one who ran away. This time."

There was an awkward little silence, and Palmer dropped his hand and moved away, but his eyes were still on Tony.

"You won't abandon them," Jimmy said. It was not a question.

"No, I won't," Tony agreed, his voice firm. He cocked his head and studied Palmer. "Does that mean you're okay with me going back to work?"

Jimmy sighed. "Can I ask you a question before I answer that?"

Tony nodded. "Shoot." And then he winced, glancing down at Palmer's wounded leg. "Oops, sorry."

"Har, har," Jimmy said, his small smile fading. "I just want to know if you really think it would be so bad to take some time off and let yourself heal."

"My team needs me," Tony said. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to ignore the ache in his injured side. His eyes popped open again. "You're good, Jimmy Palmer. Reeeealllly good."

Jimmy tried his best to look confused. Oddly, it wasn't very convincing.

Tony smiled. "Getting me to admit both that it's my team now and that they really do need me."

Jimmy returned the smile with a little shrug. "You're a good leader." He paused. "And it's not just that they need you, Tony. They _like_ you. You're as much their friend as you are their boss. And that's something I doubt even Gibbs could have said."

Tony's eyes went troubled again as he looked away, moving slowly around the couch and easing himself down carefully.

"That wasn't a criticism," Jimmy said, watching the agent's face closely. "Not all leaders lead the same way. I think that's kinda why they get so annoyed with you when you glare at them. They know it's not your style. They don't want you to be Gibbs—they want you to be _you_."

Tony closed his eyes again and rested his head against the cushions. He didn't speak, didn't move.

After a long moment, Jimmy asked softly, "You thinking or hurting?"

A shiver skittered down Tony's spine at the concern in his friend's voice, but he didn't open his eyes. "Both," he admitted quietly.

The sound of footsteps retreating toward his kitchen made Tony frown, but he didn't protest or demand that Jimmy come back. He didn't even fight when Palmer returned with painkillers and a glass of water. He simply downed the pills and was grateful that he hadn't flushed them as he'd planned. It was a little scary how Jimmy had so easily read his desire for punishment, despite what he had said.

Having real friends was scary sometimes.

But Tony already knew that.

He opened his eyes to find Jimmy gone again, but from the soft thumps of cabinets closing, he guessed the gremlin was making dinner.

He was surprised to find himself feeling glad, but it shouldn't have been that surprising: He was tired and in pain—and hungry, now that he thought about it. It was nice to have someone there to help out, but Tony was so used to doing everything himself that it felt weird to just sit there and try to relax.

His muscles felt like knotted old rope, frayed at the edges from the constant strain of his constant tension. His gunshot wounds were healing nicely, but the discomfort had been waking him during the nights, and he felt the bone-deep exhaustion of cumulative sleep deprivation all the way to his marrow.

Tony jerked awake about twenty minutes later when Jimmy cleared his throat loudly and waved a plate of food near his face. The movement caused only an annoying flicker in his side, and he realized he should probably start taking those painkillers more often—at least at night so he could get some real sleep.

He smiled up at the assistant. "Has Lee proposed to you yet?"

Jimmy grinned. "Why? Are you wondering if I'm still available?"

Tony took the offered plate and breathed deeply, wondering how Jimmy had managed to assemble a real, edible meal from the barren shelves in his kitchen. "I guess I can share custody of you—as long as I get you at dinnertime on my days."

Palmer rolled his eyes and settled in to eat, grabbing the remote and flipping on the TV.

Tony turned and studied his face. "Things go okay with your date?" he asked, really hoping it had gone well. He realized he didn't really buy into Gibbs' Rule 12—at least not in this case, anyway. Jimmy deserved to be happy. And honestly, Tony figured it couldn't hurt to have a friend in common with Lee, who would be starting her first week in the field as soon as Tony was back full-strength.

"Mmm," Jimmy said, nodding enthusiastically as he chewed and swallowed quickly. "It was … perfect, I think. I suggested an action flick, like you said, and she was all about it. Then we went to this club…"

Tony chewed happily while Jimmy chattered on, obviously enjoying being able to spill the juicy details of his date. Tony had to stop him, though, once Jimmy got to the part of the story when Lee's bra came off. He was a professional, after all.

After dinner, Tony found himself barely able to keep his eyes open, and about the third or fourth time he blinked awake after dozing off, he found Jimmy's hand in front of his face.

"Thanks, Palmer," he said, taking the pills and swallowing them dry. "You're a good guy, Gremlin, you know?"

Jimmy smiled. "Aw, Tony, you say the sweetest things."

"So," Tony said, eyeing his friend, "see you at work tomorrow?"

Palmer frowned, narrowing his eyes for a moment before giving up with a shrug. "Yep. Tomorrow." He put on a stern face and wagged his finger. "But if you take so much as two steps away from your desk, DiNozzo, I'll sic both Abby _and_ Ducky on you."

"Palmer!" Tony cried as Jimmy headed for the door.

The autopsy gremlin stopped short, turning and looking at Tony anxiously.

The agent grinned. "What if I have to take a leak, Porta-Palmer?"

Jimmy smiled and then shrugged, calling back over his shoulder.

"Depends."

Tony was still laughing when the door clicked softly shut.


	31. Chapter 31

The next morning, Palmer sat at Tony's desk, trying not to stare across at Michelle, who was anxiously rearranging her phone, keyboard, monitor, pens, and anything else she could get her nervous hands on.

He glanced around, noticing McGee and Ziva had their heads down, either buried in their work or just trying to look busy for when their boss returned. Abby had made another trip down to her car to fetch yet _another_ bouquet of black roses—to go with the dozen black balloons and handmade "Welcome Home" sign hanging nearby.

Jimmy turned his gaze to Michelle, and he waited for her to catch his eye before giving her a reassuring smile. He knew she was nervous, both about finally getting to do some field work and having Tony as her boss, but he had told her about a hundred times not to worry. The only thing that had finally calmed her down was his asking her if she'd rather have Gibbs as her boss.

"Ziva!" Palmer shouted, jumping about a mile at the loud bang mere inches from his head as the Israeli used one of her many knives to pop one of the black balloons.

Her grin was wide and innocent, but her eyes sparkled and her wild curls shook slightly as she tried not to burst out laughing at his startled reaction.

"I was worried your head might explode," she said, shrugging and waving a hand, "what with you picking cotton so intensely."

Palmer raised an eyebrow.

"Picking cotton?" Michelle asked.

Jimmy found her confusion adorable.

"She means 'gathering wool,' " McGee said without looking up from the file he was reading. "You should probably get used to deciphering the Ziva-speak," he added with a glance at Lee.

Ziva lifted a shoulder. "Tomato, pa-tah-to."

Jimmy's grin turned to a look of horror as Abby came streaking into the squad room, her cape flowing out behind her like a trail of black rage.

"Ziva David," she scolded, marching right up into the other woman's space and making Jimmy wonder who would come out on top in a fight between the two.

Sure, Ziva was Mossad, but Jimmy shuddered as he realized Abby had more weapons in the spikes, chains and studs on her clothing than Ziva probably had weapons _under_ hers.

"Why are you killing Tony's welcome-home balloons?" Abby asked, a black fingernail waving menacingly.

"Why do you assume it was me?" Ziva asked, looking unafraid.

Abby rolled her eyes. "Um, I don't know," she said sarcastically. "Maybe it's the knife in your hand and Billy's _corpse_ at your feet."

Ziva pulled a face and asked, incredulous, "You named the balloons?"

"This is a party," Abby explained, as if talking to a child, "but Director Shepard vetoed most of my guest list. I just want Tony to feel welcomed. So I brought stand-ins. Congratulations, Ziva, you just murdered Tony's frat brother from Ohio. Now say you're sorry to Billy."

Ziva nodded, her expression solemn as she bent to pick up the shredded balloon with the blade of her knife. She dropped the evidence into the trash and said, "Sorry, Billy."

The moment of silence was broken by Tony's voice as he appeared behind Lee's desk.

"Welcome to field work, Agent Lee," he said, smiling. "Think you can handle the intensity?"

"I, uh, well…" Lee said, blinking rapidly and frowning at Abby as the Goth reverently held vigil over "Billy's" final resting place. "Yes, sir," she said, nodding.

"Good," Tony replied, " 'cause we have an invite to see a real corpse. Dead sailor in Maryland. Let's go."

Jimmy got up and moved in front of Tony as the agent tried to make his way to the elevator, and he noted that Ziva, McGee and Abby were suddenly flanking him. They were all silent, waiting.

Tony grinned uneasily. "Do I really have to say 'Grab your gear' for you to actually gear up?"

"It wasn't what you didn't say, Boss," McGee started.

"It was what you did say," Jimmy finished.

"We are happy to do as you say," Ziva said.

"As long as you drop the 'let's' part," Abby added.

Tony faced the wall of opposition with something like shock.

Michelle still looked confused.

"You're on desk duty, DiNozzo," Jimmy said firmly, glad he had the team backing him up in this fight.

"Which means you need to actually stay _at_ your desk," Abby said.

Tony finally found his voice, smiling and saying, "It's a dead body, guys—not a hostage situation. I'll be fine."

"It's also field work," Jimmy argued, "which you are not cleared for."

"I'll go get the car," Tony said, rolling his eyes and turning to head to the internal elevator.

Only to nearly smack into Ducky, who was standing right behind him, arms crossed over his scrubs.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, Anthony," the doctor said, lifting his chin to stare into the agent's eyes. "You have three perfectly capable, perfectly _healthy_ agents standing right there."

Jimmy stood his ground with the rest of the team as they all watched Tony's internal debate playing across his face. They all relaxed a little when they saw him give in.

"And here I thought _I_ was the boss," Tony grumbled as he reluctantly stepped toward his desk.

"You are," Ziva said simply, her tone genuine and honest.

"And we'll call you when we get there," McGee added.

"But you're still recovering, Anthony," Ducky said kindly, "and you need to take it slowly until you're one hundred percent again."

"Because we need our leader," Abby said, her smile small a touch sad before she shook her head and managed a real grin. "We need _you_, Tony, all healed up and ready to get back to kicking asses and taking names."

Tony smiled at that and finally gave up the last of his resistance. "Go on," he said, waving at his team. He nodded at McGee and flicked a meaningful glance at Lee. "Not too much picking on the probie, Probie, all right?"

McGee badly faked an innocent smile. "Sure thing, Boss."

"We will have her back," Ziva said, shouldering her bag.

"I know," Tony replied, watching his agents head toward the elevator.

"I'm going to get my babies all warmed up and ready for the goodies," Abby said, stopping at Tony's side to give him a quick, careful squeeze. "Welcome back," she said softly, dropping a kiss on his cheek.

"Thanks for the party," Tony said back, his knife appearing in his hand as he popped another balloon.

Jimmy yelped, his attention drawn away from Michelle's butt as she entered the elevator with her new team. He turned to find Tony grinning at him, and he blushed bright red at having been caught ogling.

Fortunately, Abby punched Tony and spoke before the agent could say anything about the leering. "I thought you liked Jerry the janitor?"

"Oops," Tony said, and then he frowned thoughtfully. "The director wouldn't let you invite the real Jerry?"

Abby laughed. "Have you seen him at the Christmas parties?"

"They pour him into a cab every year," Ducky said, shaking his head. "But the old gent sure does have a nice singing voice. Just last year, he was belting out…"

Ducky offered his arm to Abby to escort her downstairs, talking all the while. Jimmy was a little surprised the doctor didn't ask him to join them, but one look at Tony's face told him why. DiNozzo was pale and had his arm held tightly against the healing wound in his side. It was a bit startling to realize that Doctor Mallard thought him to be the best to deal with the stubborn agent, but Jimmy also realized it made sense, given their slowly strengthening relationship.

Jimmy leaned against Michelle's desk and watched with a critical eye as Tony eased himself into his chair, one hand clutching at the desk in a white-knuckled grip.

"Should I even ask if you took the pain meds this morning?" Palmer asked, sighing.

"It's not that bad," Tony said, picking up a file but closing his eyes tightly.

The lie was obvious to Jimmy but he wasn't sure if it was because he was starting to be able to read his new friend or if Tony was just hurting that plainly.

"When do you go back to your doctor?"

"Friday," Tony answered, looking up. "And yes, I'll actually go."

"I know," Jimmy said, shrugging.

The easy acceptance seemed to catch Tony off guard a little and he added, "Even though it's not that bad."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, his words full of exasperation. "You got shot. Is this some sort of head-fake? I trust you to go so now you don't want to? You're going. Because you got shot."

"I'm going," Tony said, unbothered by the tone. "I'm just saying it's really not that bad. I got really lucky, according to the doctor. Bullet didn't hit the perineum—and if it had, I'd have been totally screwed."

Jimmy frowned, cocked his head, and then burst out laughing.

Tony just watched him giggle, looking confused.

"Peritoneum, Tony. There's a pretty big difference," Jimmy said, starting to giggle again. He finally got himself under control, wondering how he could force the agent to take the painkillers he obviously still needed.

"I'm not taking the pills," Tony said, apparently reading his mind. "And no you can't examine me in the middle of the squad room. It's healing fine, thank you."

If asked two months ago if he would have wanted DiNozzo to be able to read him so easily, Jimmy would have answered with an emphatic "NO." But as he put on his best glare, he realized it was nice to have that level of friendship—to know someone better than you knew yourself, and vice versa.

Tony opened his mouth to speak, but Jimmy cut him off. "I know what you're going to say."

Tony nodded. "If it was a bad joke about you really enjoying playing doctor with me, then yes, you are correct."

Jimmy grinned. "You're a pain in the ass, DiNozzo. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Yeah," Tony said, his smile sad, but a genuine one that reached up into his eyes. "Gibbs used to say that all the time."


	32. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"You've been avoiding me," Jimmy said as he slid into the booth at the bar that had become their regular meeting place since that night during the counterfeiting case so many months before.

"Yep," Tony agreed, not looking up from the menu.

Jimmy set his jacket on the bench beside him and studied the agent sitting across from him.

Tony looked tired. Not as tired as when he'd been injured and fighting a respiratory infection and dealing with a tough case and coddling a cranky team. But tired, still.

"And I know why, Tony," Jimmy said, his tone conveying that he wasn't angry about the avoidance.

The agent's eyes closed and he let out a soft sigh. "I guess that means we're gonna talk about it now?" Tony asked, opening his eyes and studying Jimmy right back.

"Do you want to—" Palmer stopped. He shook his head and smiled. "Of course you don't."

Tony's mouth twisted into a small, grim smile.

"But will you?" Jimmy asked, genuinely concerned for his friend. "I really think you should talk about it."

After a slow, deep breath, Tony nodded once, his eyes roaming the somewhat crowded bar as if the words he should say could be found written on the walls. He gave up after a moment and gave Jimmy a wary, almost pleading look. "I can't just start talking about my feelings," he muttered at the table. "I'd have to yank my _own_ man card."

Palmer rolled his eyes. "Fine. We'll play interrogation. You be the suspect. I'll be Agent Palmer."

Tony's mouth twitched.

It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough to encourage the young assistant. Jimmy leaned forward slightly and asked the question that had been on the back of his tongue for the past week.

"How do you feel about Gibbs being back?"

"What can I get you boys tonight?"

The waitress chose that exact moment to bounce up to their booth, and Jimmy kicked Tony in the shin when the agent mumbled something that sounded like "I like her question better."

They ordered burgers and drinks, and when the woman was out of earshot, Tony sighed and said, "I could have done with just a drink… or six."

Palmer frowned. "Guess that answers my question," he said sympathetically.

Tony flashed a mechanical smile that still would have dazzled any woman in the room. "Good. Then we're done here?"

Jimmy didn't buy it. "Not even close, _suspect_ DiNozzo," he said, shaking his head. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me at least how your talk went."

"Talk?" Tony said, arching an eyebrow. "You think we talked? Have you met Gibbs?"

"He had to have said something. What exactly did he say when he told you he was back for good?" Jimmy asked, frowning harder. He turned the expression into a polite smile as he thanked the waitress for the drinks she set on the table.

"What," Tony said, taking a deep pull on his scotch. He set the now half-empty glass back down with a dull thud, his expression far too bitter to be called a smile.

"What did he say, you know, when he told you he was staying?" Jimmy repeated, slightly annoyed at the waitress' interruption. He didn't want to repeat the question because he was afraid the phrase "when he demoted you" might slip out. He knew his issues with controlling his mouth.

"What," Tony said again, though it didn't sound like a question.

Jimmy huffed a sigh. "You can't just keep repeating the question, Tony."

"I'm not," Tony replied, a hint of amusement touching his tired eyes.

"I'll just keep asking," Jimmy threatened, trying to sound intimidating. He wasn't sure if he was successful or not. "What did he say?"

"What," Tony said again. He held up a hand. "I'm not being difficult, Palmer, and I'm not doing a poor imitation of 'Who's on First?' either. I'm telling you what he said. He dumped our stuff back on our old desks—and Michelle's in a damned box—and he sat at his desk like he'd never left—like he'd grown that damned mustache overnight—and he looked at us and said, 'What?' Like we had no reason to be staring at him like idiots."

Jimmy took a moment to try to digest that. It wasn't easy.

"So, Sigmund Palmer," Tony joked even though his eyes were frighteningly serious, "analyze _that_ for me, would you?"

Jimmy blinked several times, taking a sip of his drink to buy time to calm down. He knew his voice would be a squeak of outrage if he tried to talk right away. "Gibbs has been back for weeks now," he said, proud that he sounded more steady than soprano, "and that's all he said to you about it?"

Tony shrugged, his eyes scanning the bar as if looking for someone.

"That's…" Jimmy tried, failing to find the right word for what he was feeling. It seemed Tony wasn't the only one having trouble expressing emotions tonight.

"That's Gibbs for you," Tony said, abandoning the scanning and focusing on Jimmy again. The intensity in his eyes was troubling, especially considering how casual the agent's tone had been.

Palmer didn't buy the casualness for a second.

But he also didn't have a clue what to say. Tony deserved a thank-you—at the very least—for the way he had stepped up in Gibbs' absence to not only lead the team but also hold its members together. But Jimmy knew the gratitude wouldn't mean as much coming from him. It should come from Gibbs.

_I'd have better luck getting Dr. Mallard to use his "guests" as puppets than getting Gibbs to actually say those words, _Jimmy thought, shaking his head.

The agent, of course, saw the movement and raised an eyebrow in question. Palmer frowned at the Gibbs-like nature of it. "Will you at least admit that sucks?" Jimmy asked, not really expecting an answer.

But Tony surprised him by nodding. "Yeah. It sucked," he said, his tone as blank as his face as he continued. "I wasn't expecting much from him by way of an explanation, but I think the team deserved a little warning. Lee, especially."

"Agreed," Jimmy said, trying not to think about how upset Michelle had been that night. "And I think you deserved a thank-you—_and_ an explanation."

Tony just lifted an infuriatingly calm shoulder. But Jimmy was learning to read him—slowly. Tony's eyes were flat, but his left hand tapped a steady beat against his glass. Palmer decided to just spit it out.

"He doesn't deserve you," he said, studying Tony's face for a reaction.

All he got was a half-smile that held no humor. "We're not a couple, Palmer," Tony said, rolling his eyes.

"No," Jimmy countered, his tone firm, "but you do have a relationship. Gibbs might have forgotten some things, but he has to remember that."

Whatever Tony might have said to that was erased by the arrival of their waitress, who set plates down in front of them and asked if they needed anything.

_How about five more drinks and a way to get through a stubborn agent's thick skull?_ Jimmy thought. But he just nodded after Tony ordered another drink and the waitress looked pointedly at his own empty glass.

The waitress left, and Jimmy started to ask a question.

But Tony beat him to it.

"What did Michelle say about it, anyway?" the agent asked, taking a bite of his burger.

Jimmy gave him an exasperated look, immediately recognizing the distraction tactic, but he decided to answer anyway. The more drinks Tony downed, the better, he figured—even though he knew from several experiences now that DiNozzo could hold his liquor. Jimmy shuddered as he remembered the only real outburst of emotion he had seen from Tony had come only when the agent had been suffering from unimaginable pain—and gunshot wounds.

"She was upset," Jimmy said, continuing when Tony gave him a very clear "no shit" look. "And confused—especially once she found out she was going back to legal. She thought she was doing a decent job in the field."

"She was," Tony said. He set his burger down and sighed, unable to meet Jimmy's eyes anymore. "I meant to talk to her. I will. To tell her she didn't do anything wrong. That she was doing a good job."

Jimmy ignored the choppy sentences that gave away Tony's distress for just a moment to bask in some boyfriend pride. He still sometimes couldn't believe the pretty agent wanted to be with him, and he shoved aside the feeling that she might be using him for … something_. _"I told her she would be great," he said, beaming as he dismissed the silly fear as insecurity on his part.

Tony smiled back, briefly. "She has this," he stopped, frowning as he searched for the right word, "poise that I wouldn't have expected. For a probie, she can be pretty cool under pressure."

Jimmy realized he was still grinning.

"Maybe that whole timid-as-a-mouse thing was just an act," Tony said.

The grin went flat. "Why would she do that?" Jimmy asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Tony said, starting to smile again. "Maybe so as not to scare off a certain autopsy gremlin she wanted to get her little paws on?"

Jimmy blushed and ducked his head.

"Things still going okay with you two?" Tony asked, the question genuine. "You haven't talked about her much this week."

"Everything's fine," Jimmy said, munching a French fry. "Better than fine, actually. She's really great. I just figured…"

"You didn't want to upset me by reminding me she's not on my team anymore?" Tony filled in, voice calm as he sipped his drink like punctuation at the end of his sentence.

Blushing even redder, Jimmy nodded. His happy thoughts of Michelle melted into the back of his mind, though, as he studied Tony's tired eyes.

"Hmmm?" Tony asked, easily reading the change.

"I kinda want to punch Gibbs in the face."

"Really?" Tony said, arching an eyebrow and setting down the fry he was about to eat. "I know you have muscles under those scrubs, but it's probably not the best of ideas to go toe to toe with the great white, Gremlin."

Jimmy swallowed a prideful "You don't think I could take him?"—because he knew he couldn't and didn't see the point in making Tony admit it. So he settled for a different truth.

"I know Gibbs has forgotten a lot of things about the team he left," Jimmy said, "but he has to know that there wouldn't be a team left for him to come back to if it weren't for you."

Tony was silent as he stared at the fry in his hand.

A small blob of ketchup plopped onto the plate below.

"He _has_ to know that, Tony," Jimmy tried again.

Tony set the fry down and let out a long breath. "I don't know what he knows, Jimmy," he said, picking up the fry again and making red swirls on the half-empty plate. He did not look up from his food art as he continued, "He confuses me with McGee. He told me to order dinner from the place that closed down two years ago. He called Ziva 'Kate' yesterday."

Jimmy winced in sympathy at the raw pain in Tony's voice as he forced out that last sentence. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "That must have hurt."

"Hurt like hell," Tony said, surprising him again with the admission. "But not as much as when he looks at me like he's not sure who I am. We cleared a house yesterday, looking for a suspect, and he kept looking back at me, like he didn't trust me to have his back."

"He'd probably trust you completely if he knew how you held the team together when he quit," Jimmy observed, a thought forming in the back of his mind.

But Tony just shook his head. "Don't, Palmer," he said quietly. "It's a nice idea, but it's not a good idea."

Jimmy wanted to ask why not—and how Tony had known exactly what he had been thinking about doing almost before the plan was developed. But he just said, "I won't." He paused, watched Tony poke at his dinner. "Even though I want to."

"Thank you for choosing not to take on the great white," Tony said with a wry smile.

But Palmer heard the real gratitude beneath the slight sarcasm. He frowned at his plate for a moment before lifting sad eyes to Tony's.

"He's never going to thank you for what you did," Jimmy said, feeling resigned.

There was a small flicker of some fleeting emotion on the agent's face, but his voice was blank when he said, "I did my job."

"And then some," Jimmy pressed, not looking away. "He might never say thank you, Tony, but you deserve to hear it. You held the team together, and he's lucky he has a team to come back to. I wish he would tell you that, but I know it won't happen. And I know it doesn't mean as much coming from me, but you should be proud of what you did. You're a hell of a leader, DiNozzo."

Tony just stared at him, unsure of what to say. He swallowed several jokes, and simply nodded. "Thanks, Palmer." He felt a smile start to tug the corner of his mouth upward. "Couldn't have done it without you, Gremlin."

Jimmy grinned. "Autopsy Gremlin would make a pretty good superhero sidekick, don't you think?"

Tony considered that as he chewed. "Special Agent Man and his trusty sidekick, Autopsy Gremlin. I like it."

"Do you think Dr. Mallard would mind if I started running around in a cape?"

"Depends on if there's anything under the cape," Tony said, grinning as he polished off his drink and signaled the waitress for another round.

Jimmy laughed, shaking his head. "Are we getting drunk tonight?"

Tony shrugged. "Why not? It's Friday. You got anywhere to be in the morning?"

"Nope," Jimmy said, downing his drink. "Michelle and I have a date tomorrow night, some art gallery opening at this weird, out-of-the-way place she's been talking about for a week. I swear she's always surprising me."

"That's good," Tony said. He frowned a bit and then seemed to make up his mind about something. "I have a date, too."

"Yeah?" Jimmy prodded, excited that he was being let another step further into Tony's private little world. "Tell me more."

"She's a doctor," Tony said, grinning at Palmer's impressed expression. "And for some reason, she seems to like me. She works at the university hospital—Monroe—and she's smart and pretty and funny and—"

"And you really like her," Jimmy said, watching Tony's face change as he talked about her. There was an odd flicker of something there that Jimmy couldn't read, despite his months of recent practice. He chalked it up to the possibility that this girl was someone really special.

"I do," Tony said, picking up the drink the waitress delivered and downing half of it.

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "We really are getting drunk tonight." He shook his head, smiling. "So what's her name?"

Tony hesitated again for the barest fraction of a second before grinning and saying, "Her name is Jeanne Benoit."

Jimmy smiled back and lifted his glass. "Here's to you and Jeanne."

Tapping his glass against Jimmy's, Tony said, "And to you and Michelle. We're super duo Special Agent Man and Autopsy Gremlin, what could possibly go wrong?"

They downed the drinks. And then ordered two more.

**End**


End file.
